Reluctant Allies With Benefits
by Veterization
Summary: Peter/Stiles friends-with-benefits story, to be eight chapters. Peter suggests he and Stiles starts having no strings attached sex. It's that simple. No, really, it totally is. Stiles will make sure of it.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Good news and bad news. Bad news: I'm one of those people who isn't at all interested in watching season four, so this story is not compliant with anything that happens after 3b. Good news: I have basically this entire story already finished, so there shouldn't be any updating delays whatsoever or even worse, the morbid unfinished story nightmare that everybody fears.

This is the first chaptered story I've written since junior high (that's right) and it has become the utter bane of my existence. I've been working on it for weeks and quite frankly, I'm happy to finally see it published so I can move on to yet more explicit stories about these two idiots having lots of sex.

That being said, everybody enjoy!

* * *

There are three levels to Stiles' annoyance with the world: mildly perturbed, shaking his fist at the sky, and Peter Hale.

"You'd think the second chance at life thing would have made you more pleasant, but, if anything," Stiles slams the car door extra hard for emphasis as he stomps from the driver's seat, even if he does pat it soothingly a moment later, "I think you're even more of a douchebag."

"I aim to please," Peter's voice drawls from the other side of the car. He closes the door calmly, and that makes Stiles all the angrier, because now he feels irrational and immature and all the things Peter wants him to feel until he relaxes under his manipulation. Stiles doesn't want to relax.

"Maybe the third time will do it," Stiles grumbles, thundering up to the front door. His ears pick up on Peter's casual footsteps following him and feels inexplicably irked. He whirls around. "You really think you're following me in?"

"You're overreacting," Peter says with a soft sigh. It's the kind of sigh Stiles is used to hearing from adults, like when Mr. Harris hands back his D paper or when his father watches him guzzle milk from the carton. He straightens up until he's just as tall as Peter. "What I did was hardly that bad. Especially considering what I'm capable of. Compared to murder—"

"You are so fucking crazy," Stiles says, and Peter does nothing but raise an eyebrow elegantly. He whips around again and tries to unlock the door. The key grinds and stutters into the lock.

"That's a little hypocritical."

"My crazy is nothing compared to your crazy, pal. If I put my mind to something I could probably discover lost treasure and find out who assassinated Kennedy. You, on the other hand—goddammit," Stiles jiggles the key to no avail. Peter pipes up behind him.

"That's the car key, by the way."

"Fuck."

He feels a hand pull at his shoulder, fingers firm as Peter flips him around and backs him up against the door. There's something like impatience in his eyes, like he's sick of Stiles' grumbling. Stiles still has a good hour's worth of complaining he could belt out, but before he can, Peter crowds up in his personal space. His palm spreads over Stiles' stomach, low enough to skirt down over his thigh. Stiles feels a hint of his anger bubble into his throat before oozing into complacency. Damn him.

"I like you better," Peter murmurs, sliding close enough to drag the point of his nose down Stiles' cheek, "when you're not talking."

Stiles huffs, and is one second away from whipping out the three comebacks that just fell straight onto his tongue when he's interrupted by Peter's hungry exhale and an open mouth pressing into his, looking to devour and bite and leave marks. Stiles' hands fly to Peter's waist in spite of himself.

He still does the usual routine—the noises of protest, the wiggling against the door—but it only lasts a few seconds before Stiles' reserve crumbles and he kisses back, teeth first. Peter angles their mouths just right so their tongues can slip together, and Stiles makes it very clear that even if his words are silenced, his mouth is still angry. He bites down on Peter's lower lip and Peter smirks against his insistent teeth.

A moment later, a cricket chirps in the distance, reminding Stiles of the neighborhood around him. His eyes whip open, as if expecting crotchety Mrs. Holier-Than-Thou from next door to be glaring at him from the hedges, and he shoves Peter back.

"Not out here," Stiles murmurs, casting a wary eye over Peter's shoulder as the doorknob digs into his back. "Upstairs."

Peter's mouth is slick, so very close to his, and Stiles steals one last kiss that his erection instigates rather than his common sense, and the hand winding into his hair keeps it going for three more seconds before Stiles pulls back, back thumping against the door. Peter's hand curls around his, snagging the keys from his lax fingers, and he unlocks the door slowly, very slowly, too slowly.

They make it inside and Stiles pushes Peter up against the door, desperate to stop talking and start ridding each other of clothes. Indoors, where the world cannot judge him, Stiles is somewhat okay with the fact that his nightly routine involves getting naked with Peter Hale.

* * *

It's dark by the time Stiles is sated, sweaty and drowsy like napping on a boat, and he takes great delight in pushing Peter off the bed.

"Get out," Stiles mumbles, and lets his eyes drift shut as he fumbles to shove at Peter's naked torso.

"I don't get to sleep over?" Peter asks, and Stiles is too tired to do anything but thump him over the head for his mockery. He misses and hits his shoulder instead.

"It's a small bed," Stiles says. "And this way I can pretend you're just a hooker who's earning dough to stay off the streets that I'm selflessly helping."

"You couldn't afford me if I was."

The bed wobbles and croaks as Peter gets up, Stiles registering the sound of rustling fabric as Peter grabs his pants. He has no underwear with him, and this is something he knows about Peter now—he likes going commando, probably for the element of surprise. He would ruefully think that this is something he never wanted to know, but as a guy who has spent quite some time rummaging around with what's in Peter's pants, Stiles thinks he's a little past pretending.

"I'm still mad, you know," Stiles mumbles, rolling over to stretch out and occupy the space on the bed Peter vacated. "Feeling me up in front of everyone."

"They didn't notice," Peter dismisses. "And I think I made up for my behavior when I sucked you off."

"All right, so I'm slightly less mad than I was," Stiles acquiesces. He'll be over it by tomorrow. This is what he and Peter do after all, play games and annoy each other because that's all apparently a side effect of sex. Still, the games when Peter runs his hand up the inseam of Stiles' jeans when a few feet away stand all of his friends, Stiles isn't as fond of.

Peter leans to plant his hands on either side of Stiles' head on the mattress. Through the darkness, Stiles can see the smirk on his lips before he dips down and starts leaving open-mouthed kisses on his neck that Stiles is particularly powerless to.

"Then I'll just have to make it up to you more," he murmurs, words slick on his collarbone, "tomorrow evening?"

Stiles rifles through his mental knowledge of his father's work hours at breakneck speed. If he's lucky, they'll have until eight p.m. tomorrow to see how long it'll take for this no clothes business to stop being fun. Considering that it's already been five weeks, Stiles is betting on never.

"What are we gonna do?"

"I'll fuck you," Peter promises him. "But first spread you open with my tongue and watch you writhe on my fingers."

Now that's a weeknight he can get behind. He shifts on the bed, trying his hardest not to show exactly how affected his nether regions are by Peter purring filth in his ear.

"I'll unlock the window," Stiles tells him, very much aware of Peter's grin on his neck. "Six p.m. Bring snacks. Don't be late."

"Bossy."

Peter pulls away from his slick chest after that, thoroughly wetted with his eager tongue, and slings his shirt over his shoulder. He's shameless, with his blatant sex hair and his come-do-me grin, and Stiles dearly hopes that it's late enough that nobody will be prowling the neighborhood and acutely aware of the half-naked man jumping from a second story window.

He thinks about saying something, something like _check the coast is clear_, but he's tired and lazy and happily post-coital, so all he does is salute Peter goodbye. It's not sentimental in the least, which both of them couldn't be more comfortable with.

And then he's out the window blowing a smug kiss over his shoulder that Stiles ignores, and the bed feels just fine with just one person to avoid the wet spots.

* * *

Five weeks ago, the closest Stiles had gotten to touching a dick that wasn't his was accidentally stepping on Danny's foot while they were both naked in the locker room after a sweaty lacrosse practice, and now Stiles spends most of his brainpower thinking about giving head. This, he thinks, is how addiction starts.

It started at the beginning of summer, when the May evenings were still chilly rather than muggy with heat. There was a dead body in Stiles' backyard, a woman he'd never seen before sprawled in the dirt with blood down her chest like something out of a horror movie—or, in his life, something out of his every other Thursday. His father was in the middle of convincing him it didn't mean anything, it wasn't the uprising of new werewolves, it certainly wasn't a threat aimed directly at Stiles, when Peter had come strolling out of the dark commenting on how he was in desperate need of some relaxation.

He had stuck his hand into Stiles' pants after that, right there in the darkness while the police rummaged around his backyard looking for evidence and Stiles scrambled to pretend he wasn't enjoying the hand on his dick. The consent had been iffy at best at the moment, and if Stiles hadn't enjoyed it as much as he had, he would've gone about filing serious charges so he could be crowned the hero that finally put Peter in jail and out of everybody's lives.

His knowledge of handjobs and blowjobs and everything else his elderly neighbors and the nearby churches and his dead grandmother might disapprove of increased exponentially after that, most of the credit going to Google. God bless the Internet, he had thought as he browsed the explicit videos on free porn sites and learned the art of sodomy.

The idea of having unbelievable tantric sex with Peter hadn't been the bit that unnerved him. It had been the idea that he wouldn't be able to reciprocate with equally earth-shattering sex, and if there's anything Stiles isn't a fan of, it's looking inexperienced in front of his rivals. Looking back, it probably should have been a concern that would logically be runner-up to concerns like _well, he is an untrustworthy maniac_.

But keep your enemies close, and all that. Probably not so close that they know your boxer size and they have their tongues in your mouths, but Stiles isn't one to go strictly by the book anyway. So sex with Peter becomes a thing he starts actively preparing for.

It takes him a few weeks, but he gets used to a foreign hand on his cock and a body on his. He gets to the point where he starts liking it, he starts downright craving it, and suddenly Stiles could put master cocksucker on his resume should he be applying for unsavory jobs in a brothel.

The constant oral fixation had helped. Stiles likes having things in his mouth, something to curl his tongue around and taste to keep his body occupied. It was only a matter of controlling his teeth and leaning to put his tongue to use after that.

"Such a fast learner," Peter had murmured while he carded his hands into Stiles' hair and dragged him closer, hips pushing forward into Stiles' mouth. It had been the third, fourth, maybe fifth time he had gotten on his knees for Peter, this time in his kitchen right up against the fridge in the broad daylight while his dad was at work.

Not just a fast learner, but a fast addict too. Not that Stiles would admit it, but it only takes him about twenty-four hours to realize that he loves cock. He loves how he understands it much better than the mysteries in a girl's pants that they expect him to master without a manual, how it feels in his mouth, the weight of it in his hand, how it responds to his touches.

"My favorite type of learner," Peter would say while his thumbs felt himself through Stiles' cheek. "Favorite type of car too."

So cheeky, always cheeky. He only ever shut up when Stiles made him come, the smirk wiped clear off his face in favor of parted lips and eyes closed in pleasure. Stiles vastly preferred the latter to the former, so he made Peter come a lot. Not that it was exactly a chore.

It progresses quickly after that. It goes from learning how to handle another man's dick to becoming well-versed in how to have absolute, all-the-clothes-off sex. This is probably the time in his life when he's supposed to have an existential crisis about his sexuality, but Stiles is in too much of a sex haze to do so. So fine, maybe he likes dicks. Some people have more than just one favorite flavor of ice cream and nobody thinks that's strange.

This thing with Peter, it's simple. It's not long talks on the phone and sharing pie on park benches. It's sex, just really good sex, and Stiles refuses to make it more complicated than that.

* * *

They keep it a secret. Not because Stiles is particularly fond of the thrill of sneaking around or trying to keep secrets from unfairly perceptive werewolves, but because he has literally no words to explain himself with should he be caught. The alphabet and the English language do not have enough potential stored in their arsenal for logically explaining away an extensive sexual relationship with Peter Hale. So Stiles doesn't.

"You're keeping me under lock and key?"

Peter, however, is not fully on board as he watches Stiles stuff him into a closet at the sound of a knock on the front door from downstairs. He promptly disentangles himself from Stiles' hoodies and watches as Stiles peeks through the blinds on his window to watch the curmudgeonly old lady from across the street trot about the patio waiting to be greeted.

"No, I'm keeping you under me," Stiles says from over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the visitor. He has his sneaking suspicion she's here to complain about unsavory neighborly behavior, like feeling up gentlemen callers in broad daylight, and he's not interested in getting an earful from her. "Literally, most of the time. You can't possibly be offended."

"I am offended. To the highest degree," Peter says loftily from where he's begun to rifle through Stiles' clothes. Stiles looks over his shoulder from where he's crouched by the window and watches him turn a critical eye to his stud muffin shirt. "Dear god, I'm fucking a nine year old."

"You're not offended," Stiles dismisses, letting out a breath as his neighbor grows impatient and stalks across the street back into her own yard. "Yeah, that's right, just walk away."

"Excuse me?"

Stiles stands up from where he's kneeling by the window, the very picture of stealth, and snatches the graphic tees in Peter's hands away to throw back into his closet. "Stop judging my shirts," he says hotly. "And you can't honestly tell me you wouldn't mind if Derek knew you were banging me. On the daily."

"I could use the excitement," Peter grins, as if reliving a fond memory. "It's been so long since my nephew tried to kill me."

"Well, I don't want anyone to know," Stiles says, leaving no room for discussion. "I thought I made that clear months ago when I had a heart attack trying to get you out the window when I thought my dad was home early."

"Not sure why, I'm _delightful_ with parents."

"Ha ha ha," Stiles emphasizes each _ha_ carefully so they sting. "I have it on good authority that Scott's mother thinks otherwise."

Peter rolls his eyes, moving from Stiles' closet to his desk, leafing casually through the books stacked there in between crumpled papers of Internet research on google searches like "do werewolves mate for life" and "can you die from too much sex." Stiles snatches the papers out from under Peter's eyesight a second too late.

"Always trying to dredge up the past," Peter sighs dramatically, even as a smile tugs on the corner of his mouth. "I could always try and make nice with her, you know."

Stiles doesn't know what he's implying, but he already knows he doesn't like it. Something rash washes over his chest that for once isn't irritation at Peter's truly remarkable ability to find his sorest buttons and sit on them, something that's either protectiveness of Melissa or possessiveness of Peter. He acts on the feeling, tugging Peter in by his belt loop.

"You and I are creatures of the night. The night is ours, the darkness belongs to us, you know the drill," he decides to pull crap out of his ass, as Peter seems to be amused by it. "No one will ever understand. They would fear us and come after us with pitchforks. America loves tearing down things it doesn't understand."

"That was a lovely load of bullshit," Peter murmurs, snaking his arms around Stiles' shoulders to keep him close. "But it would be oh so fun to slide my hand up your thigh and watch a vessel in Derek's brain burst as I do so."

"I could think of many funner things to do, like mini golf," Stiles suggests, and then veers the conversation back on track. "Seriously, _nobody_ would understand. A few might faint. I might faint."

"I'm counting on them not understanding," Peter says, and then leans in to whisper, "I would slaughter you in mini golf, and I'd hate to see you cry."

Stiles is pretty sure he wouldn't hate it. He pushes him to a more agreeable distance again, one where he isn't in danger of falling prey to being distracted by a tongue on his ear. "You're not telling anybody."

Peter stares at him and Stiles stares back, unwavering. Peter looks away first with another dramatic sigh. "One day, you will get tired of the morals you have left," he drawls, "and then you and I will understand each other perfectly."

He nibbles on Stiles' neck while Stiles contemplates the horror of actually understanding Peter, of comprehending exactly how the gnarled gears turn in his twisted brain. According to Peter's haughty fortune telling skills, it'll be because Stiles' brain is built just like his own. Stiles steadfastly refuses, with angry picketing signs and the works.

And then the front door is knocked at again by the persistent neighbor who has decided to come back to scare Stiles' heart into his feet, and Stiles all but jumps out of Peter's grip at the sound.

"Should we perhaps prepare a drill?" Peter asks him. "Tornado, fire, incoming onlookers in danger of seeing you being sucked off?"

"You think this is funny."

"It's horribly funny," Peter admits, grinning. He trails his hand down Stiles' hip, slotting his fingers there at the curve of his waist, and cocks his head downstairs. "Are you going to get the door?"

"Are you going to behave?" Stiles asks, because he's sure Peter is currently devising at least thirty scenarios in which he casually walks down the stairs half-naked while Stiles is placating the woman knocking on the door, absent-mindedly calling out that they need more lube just to scar Stiles for life. He thinks about verbalizing that particular suspicion but decides against it, realizing he'd just be giving Peter step-by-step instructions in how to give him a heart attack at a ridiculously young age.

The idea of anyone knowing really is physically nauseating. It makes Stiles feel like his ugliest self will be out for the world to judge, the side of him that is easily seduced by older maniacal men with a thirst for murder. He has two halves of himself, it seems, the boy who is in the throes of passion and never wants Peter's dick out of his life, and then there's the opposing side that wants to curl into a ball of regret every time he thinks about his friends and family materializing in front of him as he's in aforementioned throes of passion. If you're not comfortable having someone watch, you probably shouldn't be doing it. Stiles is living shakily by this maxim.

"It's like you think I have no manners," Peter says. He leaves Peter with a look of warning over his shoulder, and goes downstairs.

Stiles is _sure_ that he has no manners, and that animalistic urges ate them all. Then again, he's the one stupid enough to hang around him anyway.

* * *

"I am so happy I'm not in love with you," Stiles huffs out when he catches his breath, everything from his forehead to his toes damp with sweat. He grins at the ceiling, and Peter noncommittally hums in response.

"That's nice," he says, and then rolls over to try and shut Stiles up with slick kisses. Stiles is too talkative after sex to be deterred.

"No, really," he says in between the quiet moments where Peter's tongue slips into his mouth. "I am so not in love with you."

"I don't love you either," Peter says in return. "Glad we cleared that up."

"I don't want to spend my life with you," Stiles says, feeling slightly giddy in his post-orgasmic state of utter freedom. "I don't like you. That 'all I need is love' stuff? Elton John didn't know what he was talking about."

He feels powerful like this, shoving his middle finger in the face of stereotypical relationships. There's something great about sex without love, passion without feelings, and it's putting all of Stiles' years spent pining over his unrequited love to shame. He could've been doing this, finding someone attractive yet random and hopefully STD free and using them as stress relief.

"The Beatles."

"What?" Stiles lifts his head to stare at Peter.

"All You Need is Love," Peter says. "You said Elton John. It was the Beatles." Peter frowns at him like a teacher handing back a D paper. "Your pop culture knowledge is deplorable."

"Wow," Stiles breathes in awe, flopping back down onto the mattress. "Did I really say that? I love the Beatles. I really do. You must have fucked me stupid."

And that feels powerful too, the admission that Stiles is officially part of the unspoken group of people who have had sex. Crazy sex, unbelievably hot and rough sex, in Stiles' case. He remembers how he had laid still in bed after the first time Peter and him had sex, how he'd stared at the ceiling and tried to come back down from the high he had rolled through when his orgasm came in, completely different than what just his hand and some lotion could give him. Sex stimulated parts of him never touched before, made him sticky and hot and very aware of his hidden erogenous zones. The human body is amazing, he had thought, Peter licking the sweat off his collarbone.

This is just _too good to be true_. Sex without strings, without a single attachment. Surely he's accidentally sold his soul somewhere he can't ever get it back from for this.

"Hey," Stiles asks, feeling the air come back into his lungs. "Do you think I could top next time?"

Peter covers his face in his hands, shielding it from Stiles' eyes, and his shoulders shake. Stiles might mistake it for emotional crying if it wasn't for the fact that he knows perfectly well that Peter's laughing and doing a poor job of hiding it. He yanks Peter's hand away from half his face, unveiling a hearty snicker twisting his lips. Stiles frowns and hits him in the shoulder.

"Hey!" he says again, this time with indignation. "I'm serious!"

"Oh, I know," Peter says. He has the gall to wipe wetness from his eyes. "Your humor is classic, Stiles."

This is not the moment when Stiles wanted Peter to start admiring his comicality. He hits him again, harder this time, but Peter's snickers refuse to relent.

"Yeah, _definitely_ not in love," Stiles grumbles.

And if he were to put money on anything, it's that that will not change.

* * *

"No, no—shit—fuck."

Stiles bites his own tongue twice in his effort to keep Peter from slamming him into his desk, a task done in vain as a desk lamp and three binders worth of loose paper go tumbling to the ground. Through the eight p.m shadows, Stiles makes out at least half a school year's amount of paper scattered by his ankles.

He curses again as Peter ignores the lamp crashes to the ground, thankfully staying in tact, focusing his energy instead on grabbing Stiles by his throat and pulling him in for a savage kiss. He kisses open-mouthed, with the intent to leave no survivors, and Stiles feels his fingers dig in where they're holding him in place right under his jawbone. Then he's pushing him down on Stiles' desk, right on the chessboard he left out, and Stiles feels what's probably a knight jam into his vertebrae.

"Fuck, _careful_," Stiles grits out. He's not made of sugar, but he's also not a self-healing prodigy who can recover from being impaled on tiny wooden castles.

If Peter's sorry for manhandling him, he wastes no time verbalizing an apology. The extent of his apology comes in Peter whirling him around and pushing him hard against the wall instead, teeth biting down on his lip and soothing the hurt with his tongue. Stiles can practically feel the wall rattle behind him as his spine undergoes yet another bruising, but he's actually pretty distracted with the hips rolling in circles against his to complain. This is how Peter works—a blend of pain and pleasure that just results in unimaginable heat and bruises that feel like certified stamps of Stiles' wild sexual escapades.

"Pick up that lamp, dammit," Stiles grumbles, readjusting his spine against the pressure of the wall behind him. Peter grinds their hips again, hands caging him in by his head, and doesn't listen.

"You want me to pick up that lamp right now?" he asks, low and sultry and so damn cocky by Stiles' ear, and then he slithers his hand down to cup his erection through his jeans. Stiles considers the options—interior decorating or hot sex against a wall. Maybe the interior decorating can wait.

"Fuck," Stiles groans, and struggles to undo the button on his jeans and kick them off. His shirt goes next, and when he's done wrestling it off his head, he sees Peter, staring at him like a starved animal. Stiles snaps him out of it by grabbing for his shirt and yanking it upward.

Peter grabs him by the nape of his neck and kisses him again, harder than before, and Stiles tilts their mouths together and is the first to bite this time. He feels Peter's fingers clench at that, clearly surprised, and Stiles grins onto his mouth and does it again.

"Oooh," Peter murmurs at that, licking over where Stiles drew blood on his lower lip. There's probably something incredibly wrong with him considering Stiles finds it extremely arousing, his dick straining in his boxers and Peter's eclipsed face close to his. Stiles parts his lips and nudges closer, just enough of a hint for Peter to pull him back in and lick into his mouth. He strays after the kiss, dragging his lips down Stiles' arm to his wrist. He always gives special attention there, licking over his pulse and nipping at the easily breakable skin.

And then Peter's lips are gone and a hand slaps over Stiles' mouth just as he's leaning in and practically whining for more, and he focuses on Peter's face through the dark. His eyes are riveted over Stiles' shoulders like he's concentrating his hearing, and just as Stiles is about to lick his palm to grant his freedom Peter's finger goes up to his lips to signal for silence.

Except Stiles is hard and eighteen and pretty damn impatient, so he wriggles against Peter's hand until it tightens over his mouth, a firm reminder of who's in charge and _oh_, something about that is oddly thrilling. Peter's eyes seem to flash as he notices the slight speed up in the pulse under his fingers right before he remembers the task at hand—focusing on whatever's just out of human hearing.

"Your father," Peter murmurs, and then carefully examines the air again, "just brought home a greasy dinner and is back from the station. Taco Bell, I believe."

He slides his hand down from Stiles' mouth as he stills, his fingers instead settling in the dip of his collarbone.

"Shit," Stiles curses, his erection duly noting the fact that his dad is downstairs. Peter doesn't back away, instead pushing their hips together until an unintentional groan falls from Stiles' mouth. "What the fuck?"

Through the darkness, he makes out a pleased smirk on Peter's face. "What's wrong?"

He steadies Peter with a hand on his shoulder, and then his hips come rolling forward again and he momentarily loses track of logic, reality, the world around him. "My dad is downstairs."

"I know," Peter says, leaning in close enough to drag his nose under Stiles' ear. "So I guess we'll have to be quiet."

No, no, no, Stiles' head is pointedly chanting, just as Stiles' cock joins the discussion with a rebuttal of yes, yes, yes. That's all Stiles' vocabulary can really create about Peter, just monosyllabic affirmations or refusals that stammer from his mouth.

His dad is downstairs, the very dad that would be traumatized for years if he knew his son was upstairs at the mercy of a man who probably wants to see how hard he can make him scream when he very much has to curb his enthusiasm. A man who is probably enjoying this just like all the other games he and Stiles play, like getting each other hard when Derek and Scott are in the room or seeing who will come first. This is such a bad, bad idea—

But then Peter's teeth sink into the curve of his neck just as his fingers slither up his throat to investigate what they discovered earlier, teasingly trailing up and down his jugular before gently squeezing and licking up Stiles' ear.

"What do you say, Stiles?" He whispers, his breath warm and intoxicating on Stiles' ear. "Can you be quiet?"

He can't, he knows he can't, but there's a pair of lips skirting over the lobe of his ear and a hand around his throat making him light-heated and dizzy like he's spent a day in the August heat, persuading him to let Peter pull him into a bad idea.

He doesn't have time to protest, he doesn't even have time to nod, because then Peter's spinning him around and pressing his chest flat against the wall, cheek hard on the cool expanse. His hand climbs up to slide over Stiles' mouth, firm on his lips to keep him quiet, and Stiles breathes hard as Peter's right hand snakes around his torso to crawl up his torso, pinching a nipple on the way. Stiles keens and his hips knock against the wall.

"Shhh," Peter says on his ear, his teeth grazing his neck, and then his free hand trails back down, flattening on the flutter of Stiles' midsection. "Don't want daddy to hear, do you?"

He waits, actually _waits_ until Stiles nods his head, murmuring approvingly on Stiles' ear as he does and pulling his pants down. The cool air breezes past his legs as Peter teases the waistband of his boxers, slipping two fingers in and running them along the curve of his hips, all the way around to his backside. He tugs them downward torturously slowly, like he's going to take his time even as Stiles already feels precome dotting the front of his underwear, and drags them down his thighs.

His mouth is dragging down Stiles' ear a moment later, tongue darting out to lick his neck. He makes a noise, something soft and sudden, that Peter's hand on his mouth muffles.

"I'm going to fuck you against the wall," Peter murmurs like a promise on his ear, the words vibrating on his skin. "And fill you up with my come, and you're going to be quiet. Aren't you?"

Stiles nods again. Peter's hips are pressed against his ass, stealing away his coherence, and Stiles feels the world tilt beneath him as a hand slides over his ass. His touches start out like soft worship, sliding over the small of his back with reverence, right before they shift into a hunger that's apparent when Peter's claws graze his skin. Then something snaps—probably the cap of a lube bottle that Peter keeps perpetually at hand in his back pocket, and something cool and slick catches Stiles off guard as it dribbles down his ass crack.

Peter's touching him again a second later, a thumb sliding his ass cheek out of the way for him to watch the lube slide over Stiles' hole, the sensation too little and too much at the same time. He's hard and aching and wants more, so he arches his back and pushes his ass out into Peter's hands. He might as well be shameless at this point. The hand on his mouth shifts, just a fraction.

"You want it badly, don't you?" Peter's murmuring, a single finger trailing up his spine, down again, tracing the bumps of his vertebrae before slipping all the way down to—_oh_.

The fingertip on his hole drags lube down with it, slowly tracing his rim while Peter's mouth leaves marks on the back of his neck. This is what Stiles would give up chocolate and video games and American freedom for, just for the dizzying sensation of a finger teasing the puckered muscle of his entrance. He could probably come just from being fingered, just from rocking down on Peter's digits with sweat in his eyes and quivering thighs. One day he should try just that.

His fingers slide in, slick with lube and unbelievably slow, and Stiles' breath hitches. He doesn't even bother starting off with just one, instead slipping in two to the knuckle and watches how Stiles' back arches and curves into the touch. His body feels like it's accustomed to this to the point of being made for finger fucking, for unrelenting intrusions and fingers in his prostate. If he could go back in time, he'd frantically tell his younger self to start drifting lower than just his dick when it comes to masturbating because he's missing out on a whole world of pleasure.

Peter's hand is warm where it's still pressed against his mouth, making breathing that much harder and the air that much hazier in the dark. This is probably what being corrupted feels like, Stiles thinks, just as Peter pushes his fingers up against Stiles' prostate and his entire body shudders at the sensation. He's still slightly loose from last night when Peter fucked him after licking him open, and two fingers go in easily, something Peter doesn't fail to comment about.

"Always open and ready for me, aren't you?" He's whispering by his neck, and when he leans in Stiles can feel the protrusion of his hardness against his backside. He whines. "You want it so badly I can smell it. It's like your body was made to be fucked by me."

It sure feels that way sometimes, and that scares the hell out of Stiles. Peter reads his body like a comic book laying open, two pages at a time, and he doesn't know how anyone will ever be able to do the same in the future, when Peter's long gone and the mind-boggling sex is a thing of the past. Then a third finger slides in his hole and Stiles flies rapidly back to the present.

"Are you ready?" Peter's murmuring on his ear. Of course he is, his ass pressing into Peter's touches and his low whimpers making it obvious, but Peter's never satisfied that easily. "Beg for it."

He doesn't pull his hand off Stiles' mouth, letting his body do the talking instead. It should be humiliating, and if he wasn't hard enough to slice diamonds in half he would be unthinkingly embarrassed, but as the situation stands he finds himself whimpering against Peter's palm and rubbing his ass backwards into Peter's touches. Peter's cock, free of his pants and lubed up by now, starts dragging up and down his ass, torturously skipping over his hole. It's the teasing that Peter is frustratingly known for by now, but Stiles knows him well enough to know that his body is Peter's weak spot. He leans back into his body, back flush against Peter's chest and ass lined up with his dick, and rolls against his torso. It seems to do the trick nicely.

"You want to be fucked, don't you?" Peter mutters, and when Stiles nods, the only warning he gets is a low growl and a tightening of the fingers clamped over his mouth before Peter's cock slides into him.

He pushes in, fast and rough and in one dizzying second, and it shoves the air from Stiles' lungs in a stifled groan. He looks over his shoulder, catching only a glimpse of the nearly primal expression on Peter's face, and for one moment, he wonders if that's the same face he'd make were Stiles to fuck him for once, to push him down on the mattress and watch Peter's eyes roll back into his head—and then Peter's pulling out and thrusting back in, mercilessly this time, and his free hand comes around to scratch down Stiles' stomach and leave sharp red marks in his wake. Sometimes Stiles has to remind himself that Peter's an animal, as primordial and rough as it gets, and then remind himself exactly how much he enjoys being roughed around even if every instinct should tell him not to. He should want safety and comfort and vanilla sex after a lifetime of inadvertent abstinence, but he likes it dirty and fast the way Peter does it. As a matter of fact, he fucking loves it.

"Look at you," Peter's panting, the hand that's digging marks into his chest snaking around to rub at Stiles' hole as his cock slips nearly all the way out right before sliding back in. Stiles wonders what type of picture he makes right now, sweaty and debauched and curving himself into Peter's thrusts, and cries out when Peter's teeth sink into his shoulder. This is what sex with Peter is—too many thoughts, too many sensations overloading his body, his brain skipping from pleasure to pain to _don't stop, right there_.

Peter's dick hits his prostate then, dead center, and Stiles feels his legs shudder. Peter's arm is around his hips a second later like an anchor, his fingers spreading out over his hipbone before stroking his erection. And that, that really is too much, Stiles watching the white explode behind his eyes as Peter hits his prostate and squeezes the base of his cock simultaneously.

"Ooh," Peter whispers, licking over the bite mark on Stiles' shoulder. "Let's see if we can do that again, shall we?"

And he does, without warning, hips snapping forward. Stiles feels it thrum through his entire body, head to toe, and he tries to figure out what he should lean into, the hand on his cock or the dick in his ass. It's a combination of ministrations that nearly leaves him crumpling to the ground, his muscles hardly supporting his legs as Peter laps over the sweat gathering on his back. His teeth are sliding over his shoulder blades, just soft grazes here and there that leave Stiles alert, and the roughness of his stubble burns over Stiles' skin.

Peter fucks him in earnest, with deep thrusts that seem to abuse his prostate with each hit, and Stiles pushes his ass into it. He shouldn't enjoy this as much as he should, the way the breath seems to be vacuumed from his lungs when he's at the mercy of Peter's cock, but maybe Peter's right, maybe he was _born to be fucked_, and maybe this is the only thing that will ever matter in his life, how the pleasure pushes through his bloodstream with every thrust.

He feels like he's being held up by a single thread, his head tipping back to Peter's shoulder. Peter's fingers slip from his mouth then and he's gasping in gulps of air, the world dizzy and hot and demanding all at once. He's going to be so sore after this, everything from the hips locked in Peter's grip to the ass he's pounding into, and he braves himself on the wall with sweaty palms as Peter pushes in again.

"No one," Peter is murmuring, voice rough and short and interrupted with growls masquerading as pants. "No one can take my dick like you. Say you want it."

"Fuck, I do," Stiles groans, and it sounds like a death wish if he ever heard one.

"Want me to come inside you?" Peter growls. Stiles can feel him everywhere, pressed against his back, mouth on his ear, hand snaked around his torso to stroke him, and he still wants more.

"Yeah, yeah, do it," Stiles pants. He doesn't even feel alive during moments like this, suspended between life and death and what is clearly the questionless bliss in the middle, and he clenches around Peter's cock to give him the go ahead.

Peter groans against his ear and then he's coming inside him, warm and full and _too much_, and Stiles tries to find purchase on the wall. The hand gripping his cock is relentless still, stroking him closer and closer, and Stiles fights to remember that he has to be quiet, he has to stay in control. Peter doesn't seem to approve, and promptly sinks his teeth into Stiles' neck in a moment of shaky passion. Stiles cries out and Peter's fingers slip in his mouth to quiet him.

That's how he comes, his tongue wrapped around Peter's knuckles and his moans stifled there, Peter's free hand stroking him through the quivers and keeping him afloat as he feels the world sway beneath him. This is how all orgasms should be, so demanding they nearly blind him, and Peter pumps him until he's sensitive enough to be made of Jell-O.

He winces at the emptiness Peter leaves behind as he pulls out, dragging sticky come with him that slides down Stiles' thigh, and if he were in any sort of state to be disgusted, he would be. As of right now, however, he's in the state of trying to find the air that the room was clearly stolen of and waiting for his vision to come back to him in more than just fuzzy dots. His thighs quake and his jaw his hanging open, and the only thing that appears to be holding him up is the hand around his waist and his own flat against the wall.

"I've got you," Peter says, and yup, Stiles was afraid of that as he tries to find his footing. Peter's voice is rough like gravel against his ear. Like being dragged down gravel until your knees split open, more like it.

"Then I'm in trouble," Stiles replies, the arm steadying him tightening around his middle. Stiles hates these vulnerable moments after sex, how easy it would be for Peter to tear him slowly apart with his teeth, and he twists his way out of Peter's arms to grope his way through the dark. He trips over something that might be a foot—possibly his own—and falls flat on his bare ass.

"If you had let me hold on, this wouldn't have happened," Peter says. He sounds smug. Friends don't sound smug when friends have tumbled gracelessly to the floor. Then again, who is he kidding trying to file Peter away in his group of friends.

"Use your inside voice," Stiles hisses as sounds of his father's footsteps croaking on the old kitchen floorboards reminds him of the company downstairs. "Your inside of a barely legal sheriff's son's bedroom voice."

"Barely legal," Peter rolls his eyes. Stiles doesn't even need to flick on the light to tell. He picks himself up from the floor, legs still shaky and ass still naked, and reaches for his boxers. "Do you know how laws work? The word _barely_ doesn't apply."

"Tell it to the judge," Stiles says.

"So we haven't covered government in school yet, have we?"

Stiles would punch him straight in the jaw if he had the strength to do so. This is something he should be used to by now, like Peter sleeping naked and going commando ninety nine percent of the time, the way Peter always spoils amazing sex by making a few jabs at his immaturity or his personality or even worse, his sexual performances, and Stiles is left shoving him out the window wishing he could hear Peter's bones snapping as he lands on the grass. He never does.

If only he wasn't so goddamn attractive, Stiles thinks. This would be so much easier—probably because it would've never happened—if he was the modern day Hunchback. It would certainly fit his personality, nasty and gnarled and twisted beyond repair, but instead he has a clean-cut jaw and riveting eyes and hands that Stiles is unreasonably attached to.

"All right, I'm done with you," Stiles groans, slipping into his jeans. They're the wrong way around, but he's in the middle of ushering Peter outside and is in no mood to look like a fool. The light in his room always looks significantly darker after he's come and he's standing on shaky legs trying to urge the naked man in his room to get dressed and haul ass out the window, extremely different from the hormonal haze pre-ejaculation. "Get out."

Peter is unperturbed. It grates on Stiles' nerves a bit, because nothing he says, nothing he does ever manages to penetrate Peter's smug exterior—except for, perhaps, when he's totally naked and at the mercy of Peter's cock—like he's heard it all before. He'd like a little reaction now and again when he's dishing out the class A snark, but Peter only seems amused, like he's found a smaller, less nefarious version of himself when it comes to at-the-ready wit. It makes Peter seem perpetually in charge, and Stiles is not willing to constantly be stuck with the underhand.

"I'll be back tomorrow," Peter tells him, and makes a show of whispering as to not alert Stiles' father puttering about in the kitchen downstairs.

He's gone before Stiles can ask for specifications, like _when_ and _where_, leaving Stiles grumbling in his wake. He's so fucking smug, so sure of himself and his assertiveness, that Stiles should really just end this here and now. He wavers on the spot, considering it as he clambers back into his pants the right way around this time, and wishes his resolve was stronger.

Actually, he wishes the sex wasn't so goddamn good.

* * *

Peter's naked body, bare from head to toe, should not be tempting as it is when Stiles is in the middle of seriously soaping up in the shower.

There he is, kicking away his pants without a shred of embarrassment, low self-esteem not a problem for Peter and his opinion of his own body. Stiles has to agree. He might not be built exactly like Derek or have all the same muscles as Scott, but he's full-bodied and rough and there's a trail of hair leading down his hips that Stiles refuses to admit makes his mouth water, but the stutter of his heartbeat against his neck probably vocalizes that particular opinion for him.

"No," Stiles says firmly, sticking his head out of the shower. There's shampoo threatening to trickle down into his eyes, but keeping Peter out of the bathroom is more important as of right now, not that his cock agrees. "Get out."

Peter raises an eyebrow like Stiles' attempts at dominance are cute, and then he's tugging aside the shower curtain Stiles is trying valiantly to shut, planting a palm on Stiles' chest to push him back into the tub and make room. Stiles hates how willingly his body complies.

"Show some hospitality to your guests," Peter chastises, and then he maneuvers Stiles under the spray of water to presumably quiet him.

"No vacancy," Stiles sputters, wiping the water from his eyes. "Closed for business."

And then Peter's massaging the shampoo out of his hair, holding him under the spray of warmth until it runs down his shoulders, and the second he's free of residual suds Peter's backing him up against the steamy tiles and flattening his tongue against his neck, dragging upwards. Stiles' hands find Peter's hips, wavering there as if he's unsure if he wants to push away or pull him those last few torturous inches separating them closer.

"Stop complaining," Peter murmurs on his skin, Stiles grumbling all the while. "You get naked me in your shower." He says it with a crooked smirk like it's a privilege most commoners have to shell out money for, and then he reaches out to run his hands down Stiles' soapy flanks. No, no, no. "You should really learn to relax."

Stiles scrubs all the more vigorously, swatting Peter aide as his hands start wandering into bad idea territory.

"Stop trying to get me all dirty in the shower," Stiles says, and retaliates by dumping a handful of pearly shampoo on Peter's head. He looks extremely displeased, like a drenched cat. "I'm trying to get clean. You being here is counterproductive."

"Ouch," Peter says with little conviction, and then starts massaging the suds into his hair. Anything that occupies the fingers hell-bent on getting Stiles interested in wet, sudsy shower sex is fine by Stiles. "What happened to teenage boys and their eternal sex drive?"

Stiles considers saying something along the lines of _some old man wore me out_, but decides to spare Peter's inflated head the praise. "I'm still trying to wash your come off my chest," Stiles ends up saying. "And you're trying to start up round two?"

Peter chuckles at that, clearly proud, and grabs Stiles by the shoulders to manhandle him to the other side of the shower while he steps under the spray and rinses his hair clean. It gives Stiles a truly spectacular view of Peter's drenched ass, nearly shining in the water running in rivulets down his back, one he enjoys as quietly and platonically as possible to keep Little Stiles from getting any ideas.

"You wouldn't be trying to wash my scent off of you so no one gets any ideas, would you?" Peter asks slyly under the loud rush of the spray.

"That's exactly what I'm doing," Stiles deadpans without a single shred of guilt. "I have a lot of friends with supernatural nose abilities, you see."

"Fascinating," Peter says, running his fingers through his hair as the last of the shampoo's residue slides down his shoulders. He holds his hand out wordlessly for the conditioner. "How did that happen?"

"They're all werewolves," Stiles slaps the bottle into his open palm. "Thanks to a certain someone who can't control his urges."

He shoots an accusatory look at Peter—or a look he hopes is at least mildly daunting under the crippling circumstances of water in his eyes—because Peter is the base of all his problems. Peter's such a nice scapegoat. Peter's the root of all evil, whether it be turning his best friend or making his dick try and set sail when he's in public by blowing up his phone with provocative messages.

"Controlling urges," Peter repeats, and then he reels Stiles in by the hip until he's stumbling into his chest. "Would you happen to know anything about that?"

He says it while he has the gall to roll his hips forward, slow and steady, and Stiles knows _zilch_ about controlling one's urges, especially the naughtier ones. He tries, futilely at best, to wrangle himself free even as their cocks rub together in the process.

"Stop, dammit, wet shower, hard tiles, vulnerable skull not wearing helmet," Stiles grits out, feet very slippery on the slick bathtub floor beneath his stiles. Peter takes his words as his cue to hold on tighter.

"Werewolf reflexes make it highly unlikely I'll drop you," Peter reasons. Stiles keeps struggling nonetheless.

"I know you have the capability not to drop me, I just don't trust you not to anyway," Stiles says. Peter's gall grows more incredulous still as he dares to look surprised by his declaration.

"Weeks of me stroking you to completion and memorizing the way your mouth falls open when you orgasm and you still don't trust me?"

"My orgasms are just about the only thing I trust you with," Stiles says, and struggles on in vain until his attempt at a sudsy escape to the other end of the shower where washing and rinsing is sure to happen without interruption reaches its end. He stills, Peter's hands taking the opportunity to slide down to his ass.

"Wise choice," Peter says just as Stiles pries his fingers away to focus on lathering himself up with soap instead. "You might just survive long enough to graduate college."

"You're saying I shouldn't trust you?" Stiles asks.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't. You have no idea what goes on in my head."

Stiles stops lathering in his tracks. "Oh god. Have you been planning my death?"

"No," Peter makes no effort to hide the derision in his voice. "But if I was, you wouldn't know. That's the danger of having people close to you."

"All right, this shower has officially become a bit too _Psycho_ for my taste."

That's probably his motto, Stiles realizes faintly as he violently scrubs down his thighs where the bruises are the most prominent, as if hoping to wash away all traces. That people coming close means flashing neon signs of danger, danger. The fire and the coma probably didn't help negate that particular mindset, but still. He desperately needs to spend a weekend bathing in puppies.

"You need so much therapy," Stiles says off-handedly, the soap threatening to slip from his fingers as he cleans the tricky spots on the small of his back where his arms don't bend.

It takes him half an hour, what was practically half a bar of soap, and a lot of dodging Peter's hands to get clean, and another fifteen minutes to wipe away every last trace of Peter's fingerprints. He probably loses a good layer of skin in the process, but it's the price he's willing to pay for sex.

* * *

The inconvenient thing about summer, Stiles realizes one month into summer break as he's staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, is that turtlenecks and decorative scarves are no longer discreet options when it comes to hiding any incriminating love bites.

Incriminating might be putting it lightly. Stiles doesn't think he's ever seen this shade of purple in nature, certainly not mottled with dark blots of brown and blue, and his bathroom is woefully understaffed with concealing make-up. Doubtfully, he tries to smear away the marks with a wetted thumb. No such luck.

It's _July_. It's hot. There is a constant film of heat over the air that ceiling fans are no match for, and standing in his own kitchen feels like squatting behind a bus' exhaust vent. This is no time for anything other than shorts and tank tops, so it's a little disconcerting that his choice of attire also happens to glaringly draw attention to the purpled spots on his neck, his shoulder, the inside of his arms, his stomach, and his thighs.

Peter's probably doing this on purpose, Stiles thinks as he stands in front of the mirror, speechlessly fuming. He probably thinks it's a riot to have Stiles walk around like a deed signed and claimed and marked up with Peter's proverbial signature. He wonders which would be worse, going out and buying make up to conceal the bruises taking up rent-free residency on his body or stopping Peter from doing that regrettably delightful thing with his teeth where he nibbles on Stiles' neck.

He entertains the idea of telling the people in his life—or at least all the people who have eyes and moderate deduction skills—the truth, for approximately two whole minutes. Then he decides that flimsy hoodies and staying as nonchalant as possible will have to do the trick.

"Aren't you a bit warm?"

Shit.

Stiles is very warm. Quite warm—some might think boiling from the inside out would be an accurate term. He shakes his head no and grabs the Xbox controller Scott is offering him. Scott is resting luxuriously next to him in a tank top and shorts and bare feet, the absolute epitome of utter comfort, and Stiles regrets never getting the werewolf makeover if only to no longer have to worry about carrying Peter's signature around all over his body. He doesn't know how obvious it is, or if the marks themselves are easy to read as the work of Peter's tongue, but he's not willing to chance it. He has absolutely no explanations up his sleeve, so he zips up his hoodie up to his jugular.

He isn't exactly fond of lying to his best friend. Typically he and Scott are in on the lies together, working as a team to hide their secrets from the judgmental world, and now it's him and Peter snowballing a fib together. It's an odd partnership, he has to say, mostly because he doesn't want to share anything with Peter other than saliva, and he wonders if he should feel guilty for betraying Scott. Is he betraying Scott? Or is he just withholding information with a new partner in crime? That sounds like it merits guilt.

"Did you get a bug bite?"

"What?"

Stiles jerks up from where he's aggressively blowing up passerby in the video game in front of them and follows Scott's gaze to his neck where a small, angry red mark has wheedled its way to the daylight from underneath the protection of his hoodie.

"Oh, yeah," Stiles says, blessing the fact that he's fast in a crisis. Quick thinking is a must when he spent most of his everyday high school life lying straight to people's eyes while relying purely on the believability of his poker face to sell the validity of his fib. "Must have."

"Mosquito?"

"Yeah, from a real pest," Stiles says grimly. He's seen it in the mirror, knows it looks nothing like the mark of a mosquito, and wonders if Scott knows and is purposefully trying to prod the truth out of him. He looks at Scott critically, trying to find that knowing glint in his eyes, and doesn't see it.

He's a terrible friend, he thinks as he burrows down into his hoodie and starts sweating lava. Perhaps making it easier for Scott to figure it out on his own would keep Stiles from wrestling with ways to break the news to him. Perhaps he should start walking around without the protection of fleece sweatshirts in summer and let Scott come to conclusions of his own.

"Dude," Scott pipes up suddenly. "Can you believe that I haven't had to deal with a bug bite since... sophomore year?"

A simpler time, Stiles thinks woefully. He feels acutely aware of every achey lovebite on his body right now, like an unwilling museum exhibition, and wishes it was darker just to be able to hunker down in the shadows, where his sex bruises are safe to come out without being examined and scrutinized. At least back then Stiles was still keeping secrets _with_ Scott.

Telling him wouldn't be that bad, Stiles tries to rationalize. It's not like he's in secret cohorts and is planning on taking down Beacon Hills with Peter Joker and Harley style. He's just having sex. Meaningless, addictive, completely unattached sex. Surely Scott would understand such a basic concept without judgment.

Stiles deflates as he lets his overly chipper logic settle. _Stiles_ can't even understand such a basic concept, not when he's constantly berating himself for stooping so low as to sleep with Peter Hale, so he can't expect Scott to. It's a shame, honestly, because he'd like to share the details, even the gory ones where he can finally verbalize what a real orgasm feels like, nothing like the ones he was experiencing when it was just him and his hand keeping him company.

"Hey, you want any chips?" Stiles says, making the decision to steer the conversation into a different direction for good. His chance at being honest waves goodbye to him as it flies away, and Stiles thinks it'll come back. Surely it'll come back, and he'll do this properly.

* * *

So the way your eyes are inevitably drawn to those animals on the side of the road—the bloody, mangled ones with half their body smeared across the street—even if you really, really don't want to look, that's exactly how Stiles is drawn to Peter. It's morbid, it's a little gross, and it's probably something he would've been better off without.

He might also liken Peter to those itchy bug bites that downright ruin summer. Wanting Peter is like sitting down while trying hard to think of anything but scratching, because he knows it won't help, he knows it'll aggravate the skin, he knows it'll only feel good for that one second. Getting his want of Peter fulfilled is like giving in and scratching with frantic fingernails, five seconds of _yes yes yes yes_ right before the skin turns red and he regrets his poor sense of control.

Or maybe like the aftermath of a demolition, that works too.

It used to be a reflex, that upon seeing Peter, the proverbial hackles would rise, and with it, the lingering threat of pissing himself out of residual fear. It's only best to fear those who could—and have proven—that they could rip you apart and don't even need a chainsaw to do it, so Stiles doesn't know where the wiring in his brain went wrong that his instincts shifted and suddenly, looking at Peter meant heat coiling in his belly and his libido demanding attention.

Now he looks at Peter and the first thought that comes into his mind is how many bruises he wishes he could leave up his neck, how his stubble feels burning up Stiles' cheeks, how easy it would be to unbutton Peter's pants.

* * *

Okay, so it's something short of a miracle that they managed to keep it secret for so long.

He's staring at the graffiti words _loft 3a sux dick all day for no pay_ spray painted onto Derek's rusty front door and trying to curb the tactless laughter before it bubbles up his throat, avoiding Derek's glower as it passes over all of the gathered subjects—namely him, Isaac, Scott, and Peter. If this is his line-up of suspects, he really ought to include the bratty kids from downstairs as well who leave their bikes in parking spots.

"It was you," Derek deadpans without a hint of mirth as he crosses his arms in Peter's direction.

"Of course not," Peter dismisses. "I did pass second grade English, you know."

Derek seems unconvinced, squinting at Peter as if trying to lure a confession out of him. Stiles stifles his laughter by biting forcefully down on the inside of his cheeks.

"You thought it'd be funny. You sneaked up here last night for a laugh."

"I have an alibi," Peter says hotly, and his gaze drifts over to Stiles out of the corner of his eyes. Stiles fixedly ignores him, but unfortunately, everybody else is too busy paying attention.

The air gets thick with the proverbial crickets as sharp looks are exchanged that Stiles wishes he could intercept if only to avoid this horribly uncomfortable moment, and then Isaac breaks the tension with, "Well. That explains the smell."

Oh, it's bad. It's really, really bad. Stiles shuts his eyes like he's awaiting a blow to the head, or maybe a surprise earthquake that swallows him away, or maybe for a leprechaun to descend from the sky and divert everyone's attention with a well-coordinated jig over a pot of gold. None of the above happen. What happened to laughing over provocative graffiti, Stiles wonders faintly.

"Wait," Scott says, just as Derek interrupts with a heavy groan. Stiles sees none of it, eyes hermetically shut from the world as he critically berates himself for every decision he's ever made up to this point in his life. It isn't happening if he can't see it, and it won't continue if he pretends he's not even here.

"You've got to be kidding me," Derek mutters, and he sounds like this is just another problem dumped on his lap he has to deal with. He turns to Stiles, and through the cracks of his fingers he sees a judgmental look aimed at him like Derek was sure he had better taste.

And then Scott is breathing in, inhaling loudly enough to be overhead, and Stiles hunches in on himself as if trying to mask the pheromones, the lingering smell of sex, the scent of Peter's come rubbed onto his chest.

"Oh," Scott says, just one tiny realization wrapped up in a single word. Stiles refuses to look him in the face.

"Care to explain?" Derek grumbles.

"Please," Peter scoffs. "As if we owe you an explanation."

_We_. Dear god. Never so badly in his life has Stiles wanted to be a singular unit not at all affiliated with Peter Hale. He feels like he's just been made an accessory to a crime.

"It's pretty obvious," Isaac pipes up, completely unnecessarily. "They've been fucking."

Okay, that's it. Stiles is going to have to find new friends. Forget that, he's going to have to find a new home, a new city, a new life, one where no one knows that he was thoroughly deflowered and corrupted by Peter's dick. People who can't smell someone else's touch on him, who can't give him the look of utter distaste that Derek is currently sending his way.

"Don't—don't look at me like that, jesus," Stiles grits out. He feels like every eye on the earth is on him right now, loudly judging without having to say a single word. They might not owe anyone an explanation, but Stiles still feels the strong urge to explain himself. The need to write this off as an alcoholic mistake or colossal misunderstanding fights to stutter itself from his tongue.

"Him, really?" Derek jabs his finger in Peter's direction. Yes, him, Peter, as in everybody's least favorite murderous uncle. No need to point.

"Derek," Peter cuts in smoothly. "You're in no position to judge anybody's sexual choices, considering what all of yours ended in."

Derek's glare snaps straight back over to Peter. Stiles is secretly hoping that a fight will break out just to cause a diversion that he can use to pry open the earth and jump inside and say goodbye to this mortal world. He catches a glimpse of Scott's face, completely ashen like a ghost's hue, and wishes they were all still talking about the graffiti.

Fainting would probably provide the escape he so desperately wants. All it would take is one dramatic swoop to the floor and he'd be unconscious through most of this. After what he's been through in life, he thinks he deserves a few moments of peace where he doesn't have to worry about everybody's eyes on him and Peter like they're some sort of partners in crime.

"This is," Stiles stutters helplessly. Four pairs of eyes rivet over to him. "I mean, this isn't. I don't think anybody." He's hyperventilating, surely. Derek's squinting at him as he tries to smile and breathe. "I'm not. We're not. This is just. Jesus fuck." He manages to get the important bit out in the end. "We're _not_ in love."

Someone thunders up to him, and he prays that it isn't Peter because _now is not the time._ A hand lands on his arm, a soft grip sliding around his elbow, clearly Scott. Stiles looks up and sees Scott's brown eyes a few inches away.

"Come on," he says to him. "I'll get you some room."

He nods, shooting one last look over his shoulder where Peter is fixing him with a look of pure exasperation for all his histrionics, and standing next to him looking baffled and bothered, Derek sends him judgement he could feel from a mile away, no postage needed. He focuses on Scott's firm hand on his arm, leading him away from the chaos like a bodyguard, and lets himself be pulled away from the mayhem.

He's pretty sure that mayhem will still exist wherever he's being taken and that "get you some room" can be loosely translated to "find someplace quiet where you can explain your horrid choice in sex partners," but Stiles decides to go without trouble.

It's like the dentist, he reasons as Scott ushers him out into the fresh air. You dread it, you dread it, you dread it, you dread it, and then it's finally over and you feel great if not a little numb and violated.

* * *

"So let me get this straight. You and Peter have been in a private relationship for the past few weeks and never did you feel like it was something you should bring up with your best friend?"

Stiles is not a big fan of the sum ups. Nor is he a fan of the guilt that creeps onto his face and stays frozen there for hours at a minimum as Scott stares him down, looking slightly faint in the face, like the mere idea of Stiles sucking Peter's dick is enough to cause the screws in his brain to topple free. To be fair, Stiles has trouble wrapping his head around the idea sometimes too.

"Just to clarify," Stiles adds in helpfully. "We're not in a relationship."

The clarification doesn't wipe any of the befuddlement off of Scott's face. Stiles can sympathize, unless he thinks back to how mind-blowing it felt to have Peter finger him into a sobbing mess, and then his understanding is diminished just a bit.

"Not a relationship?" Scott repeats. "What's going on then?"

"Just sex," Stiles says. "We literally couldn't be less interested in each other on an emotional or mental basis. I don't even know what his favorite color is."

"Dude," Scott says, and he looks deadly serious, like he's the only one who can pull Stiles free from the sex haze clouding his mind. "You're having sex with a guy who spent a year trying to kill us."

"Foreplay!" Stiles says with a breezy laugh. "Listen. We don't even share feelings. We just make noise."

It doesn't mollify Scott like it should. Honestly, Stiles is touched. Under all that terror on Scott's face is concern, like he's genuinely worried about Stiles' well-being and how he's planning on emerging alive from Peter's clutches. He probably has many, many questions, and Stiles isn't sure he has a single answer to offer.

"How did it even start?" Scott asks after taking a deep breath. He looks like he's really trying, genuinely attempting to understand and pay attention to reason, which is a little concerning, because nothing regarding Peter involves _reason_. The extent of Stiles' logic when it comes to agreeing to sleep with him is _it felt good_ which then progressed into _it still feels good_ and that's about all he can drum up in favor of this entire arrangement.

"Um," Stiles tries to think back to the day. Blood in his backyard, police cars lined up in the driveway, Peter prowling out of the shadows and rambling about tension relief. A hand suddenly in his pants. Stiles coming embarrassingly fast and Peter telling him he knows where to find him if he's interested in a repeat performance. "Remember that day when there was a body in my backyard?"

"For _that long_?" Scott looks upset now, straightening up. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know!" Stiles does know, actually. He wanted desperately to avoid this entire conversation where he has to explain his actions like a child who ate ten lollipops before dinner. He grimaces. "Honestly, I sort of thought you already knew. I mean, you have werewolf senses and I was busy _a lot_ more than usual and I didn't think you'd actually believe the bug bite stories."

Instantly, Scott's eyes rivet downwards to Stiles' collarbone where a few smatterings of healing marks are barely concealed with his shirt. Stiles compulsively pulls it up to shield them. Scott looks speechless.

"Oh god, you hate me," Stiles announces a moment later after the silence settles. He feels very aware of his body, of how every moment Scott is probably coming to another conclusion about why Stiles sounded so breathless on the phone that one time, or why he was perpetually wearing a jacket zipped up to the chin throughout most of June.

"What? No," Scott reaches out to grab him by the shoulder and look him in the eye. He doesn't even look uncomfortable, and Stiles feels like he must've hit the best friend jackpot if Scott is willing to try so hard to pretend that the idea of Stiles and Peter doing the nasty isn't making him want to hurl. "I would never—Stiles, I'm not judging you."

"You should," Stiles says, nodding vigorously. "I mean, _I_ am."

"I just don't want to see you get hurt," Scott tells him earnestly. "And Peter, well—nobody really trusts him."

"Yeah, me neither," Stiles agrees.

"And you're okay sleeping with him?"

"Well," Stiles thinks about it, and thinks about how Peter would say it. _Stop confusing marriage and sex,_ would be how, probably. _The only thing I trust him to do is make me come._ "You don't really need one to have the other."

Scott's face pinches together. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, about ninety seven percent positive that's the truth. "And if not, all my earthly possessions go to you and my dad and you guys can brainstorm on how to avenge my death."

Scott doesn't laugh, just ends up forcedly smiling like he's watching a brutal execution disguised as a clown's magic trick.

"The sex must be really good," Scott says, clearly marveling over Stiles' choices in life as he tries to make sense of them. Stiles knows from personal experience that doing so is a waste of a perfectly good four hours. Maybe the sex really is that good. Maybe it's has made him brain dead. Maybe this is what all those sex ed lectures scaring youngsters from sex that Stiles never paid attention to were taking about. "Not that you have to tell me about it."

"So you're okay with," Stiles gesticulates rather than saying it out loud. Saying out loud that he's in sexual cahoots with Peter Hale seems a bit final. "All this?"

"As long as you are," Scott tells him. "So what happens when we leave for college?"

"The sex stops and Peter moseys back into his cave," Stiles says. "Easy peasy."

And honestly, what could go wrong with a plan that simple.

* * *

"What are we doing?"

Stiles looks up carefully from his hamburger, a good chunk of lettuce still sticking out his mouth. He wipes the grease on his fingers off on Peter's car seat for no reason other than to watch the tick in Peter's forehead vein pulse.

"What, eating?" Stiles asks him around his mouthful of food, the bread pressing against the roof of his mouth swallowing most of the consonants. "Sort of a basic human need, you know."

"I meant," Peter clarifies hotly. "Why aren't we having sex?"

Stiles swallows another bite and looks at the way his feet are crammed into the foot room and the console is hip-checking him. "Like there's room," he snorts. "Besides, I'm not dying giving you road head."

"The car's not moving."

"Fine," Stiles grits out, and sweeps his arm out over the parking lot. "I'm not going to jail blowing you behind a Burger King."

Peter looks unimpressed, like the short length of Stiles' imagination is greatly disappointing him. If Stiles had the room, he would dig his elbow into Peter's rib for that look, but Peter seems to be moving his discontent to the greasy meal spread out in his lap. He drops his hamburger with an aura royalty might possess while looking down at peasant scraps.

"If I were human," he says haughtily, licking ketchup off his thumb in a way that Stiles finds much too distracting for somebody who loves boobs as much as he does. "I would be careful about what slew I would put into my body."

"Didn't know you cared," Stiles shoots back without missing a breath. Peter's eyes flash when he notices Stiles' gaze riveted to how Peter's tongue is wrapped around his thumb, taking care to slip it further into his mouth. Stiles remembers his train of thought and looks fixedly away. "I'm trying to get Scott used to the idea. Of, you know, _this_."

"And for whatever reason that means punishing me to abstinence?"

Without looking up, Stiles pelts a fry at his face. Peter dodges it, but it feels good to throw things at him nonetheless, even if it results in nothing more than oil stains on his clothing. He deserves it.

"I just don't want to walk around smelling like your sperm for a few days," Stiles tells him, wrinkling his nose at his own wording. He looks at Peter, hotly cleaning the grease off his shirt with a napkin, and is concerned for his own sexual attraction in men. After high school, he really ought to psychologically look into that.

"So I take it he took it badly?"

Stiles shrugs. "Actually, I think he sort of underreacted," he says, absently scratching his head. He probably doesn't value Scott and his maturity as much as he should. He ought to send him a mug or an apron, something that shows his appreciation that he didn't react like the average person would have if he'd shared with them that he's banging a zombie serial killer werewolf.

"And your excuse was?"

"What excuse?"

"The excuse you inevitably gave to explain as to why you're sleeping with me," Peter says casually, like he's one percent comfortable with being lied about as long as he's in on the lie. For a second, Stiles doesn't know if he's pathetic or admirable. Peter turns his head sideways to survey him. "Did I drug you? Blackmail you? Just want to make sure we're on the same page with the storytelling."

"No! No, no Beauty and the Beast situations," Stiles clarifies. "I just told him it… happened. I didn't say we were in a relationship. Because, well. That's not exactly what this is." He looks at Peter, now pilfering fries from Stiles' lap and patting Stiles' thigh with his claws bared when he tries to snatch them back. "I don't even really like you."

"How sweet," Peter says dryly as he licks the salt off of fingers, once again going out of his way to make his tongue's involvement in the clean up as obscene as possible. "We're not a in a relationship."

"That's what I thought," Stiles says, saving the last of his fries from Peter's greedy fingers by stuffing the remainders in his mouth. It takes him a good forty seconds just to chew, but Peter's glare is worth it. "Then what exactly is this?"

He just wants a name, just something his brain can wrap around. He's not even comfortable using the term _fuck buddy_ when never in a million years would be clap Peter on the back with a jovial "buddy!" leaving his mouth.

"It's a conspiracy," Peter says, flashing him a grin. "We're in a conspiracy."

Conspiracy. Like two people hiding something secret that the government probably wouldn't approve of. It probably fits better than anything Stiles could have come up with.

All right then. Stiles can live with being in a conspiracy, as long as he's not in a gang.

* * *

A/N: In case anybody's curious, we still have seven chapters to come!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: It's been decided-weekly updates every Friday!

* * *

"I am so fucked."

"What's wrong?" Panic is the immediate edge that chases Scott's voice, followed shortly by a suspicious pause. "Are you naked right now?"

"Now, no," Stiles concedes. He feels like he should be smoking leisurely out the window with his feet propped up and a silken robe draped over his shoulders. It fits the afternoon sex stigma. "Earlier was a different story."

"Oh god," Scott says, and his voice is a strange blend of the wrinkled nose that comes with too much sharing and the proud encouragement of a best friend's obligations to cheer on his pal's sexual adventures. "Where are you?"

"Peter's apartment," Stiles tells him, bare feet padding on the floor as he heads to the kitchen. Sex makes him hungry. There's something so powerful in that statement, _sex makes him hungry_. Like he's had enough sex to know. Like he's ferocious enough during to need refreshments and snacks after.

"And where's Peter?"

"Out to get food," Stiles pokes his head into the fridge to find himself a refreshing post-coital beverage. What he finds are water bottles and a rack of wine by the fridge. He ought to sneak a few sodas on Peter's grocery list, even if he does shop at the pretentious organic food market that prices tomatoes at twenty dollars. "I was hoping you could help me out."

Scott's trepidation makes itself clear in the pause that follows. "...what do you need?"

"No sexual condiments of any kind, I promise," Stiles swears. He has to bear the knowingly judgmental glance of the cashier each time, but he'd rather get his own flavored lube than enlist Scott. "I need you to tell my dad I'm sleeping over at your place tonight. I'm staying at Peter's and I need a cover."

Scott groans, clearly not on board. Stiles is willing to bring up all the instances Stiles lied for Scott if he has to, starting with the time he vacuumed up the class hamster and Stiles told Melissa he personally saw it leap out the window, and peaking at the undercover werewolf shenanigans.

"Come on," Scott wheedles. "Haven't you had enough sex?"

Never, Stiles thinks dizzily. This is probably when he should check himself into the clinic. "Says the guy who I know buys his condoms in bulk," he twists open a water bottle and guzzles a few gulps. "Just for tonight."

"Just one night?"

"Yeah," he says. Two or three at the most, his brain supplies. "Call my dad and tell him we got caught up in Call of Duty. Star Wars. Game of Thrones. Your call."

He is a good friend, and he deserves this. He deserves a few uninterrupted hours of meaningless sex at his fuck buddy's abode without having to worry about every car that rolls down the street in case it's his father coming up the driveway. That's the sort of thing that can really kill a mood, and Stiles deserves orgasms. He's about to mention this interminable truth when Scott seems to come to the conclusion by himself.

"Okay," Scott says. "I'll tell him." He stops himself, clearly planning on saying more. "Be safe. Use a condom."

He's about to solemnly promise that they will raise the child together should they run out, but then Peter's key slotting in the front door distracts him.

"Oh, I hear the door," Stiles cranes his neck in time to see the front door open and Peter's shoes slip inside. "The caveman has returned with a haul of hunted food. Gotta go."

Peter raises an eyebrow at that as he toes off his shoes and sets the Chinese food down on the kitchen counter, Stiles pushing the phone back onto the nightstand as Scott says a hasty goodbye.

"I'm a caveman?" Peter asks him, sounding mildly amused. Stiles shrugs, getting to his feet to rifle through the nearest bag to locate the chow mein.

"You fit all the descriptions," Stiles says. "Animalistic, hairy, inclined to act on all your baser primal urges."

"I'm flattered," Peter murmurs. "How's Scott?"

It's a mark of how weird Stiles' life is that he no longer has the energy to be annoyed at how intrusive listening in to both sides of a conversation is, and he grabs the preferred fork out of Peter's hand to start chowing down.

"Probably disturbed since he knows how supremely sexed up I am," he says with relish.

"What happened to staying discreet?" Peter asks dryly. He twirls his noodles onto his fork, literally twirls like the queen might when having brunch with prime ministers, and Stiles watches it knowing one more idiosyncrasy about Peter he didn't think he ever would. "You were the one threatening to surgically remove my kneecaps in my sleep if I told anybody how pretty you sound when you come, and now you're sharing intimate details with Scott?"

"I can't help it," Stiles says. His mind breezes right over the _how pretty you sound when you come_ comment that would've sent his eyebrows into his hairline a few months ago. Either he's become marginally filthier, or he's become used to Peter's tendency to decorate his sexual language. "Bragging about having sex is so satisfying. Can we eat this in bed?"

He points his fork at the chow mein container in his hand, slurping a noodle into his mouth as he talks while Peter watches his table manners with noticeable contempt.

"Only if I can eat it off you," Peter murmurs. Stiles is still a little sticky and a little sore from the last time they involved refrigerated snacks in their naked time, so he settles for finishing his dinner at the table for now.

"Anyway," Stiles says. "I called Scott to ask if he could cover for me to tonight so I could sleep over."

Peter's fork stutters on its way up to his mouth, halting in front of his lips.

"You're sleeping over?"

Stiles looks at him. "Relax, I won't paint your nails. It's gonna be an adult sleepover. No pajamas necessary," when his words do little to convince, Stiles sets down his fork and sighs. "Come on, I've slept over before."

"You haven't _slept over_. You stayed the night because you were too out of it after being fucked senseless to drive yourself home."

"Why are you saying that like it's some tedious thing?" Stiles swallows a chunk of chicken and snatches some of Peter's noodles from his takeout box. He dangles them into his mouth like the teenager he is, refusing to roll them on his fork with dignity. He garbles his words out around the food in his mouth. "You're the one doing the fucking."

"True," Peter concedes. Stiles goes to grab another forkful of his noodle dish and Peter promptly digs his claws into his hand. Amazing how fast he can pull those out. "Did Scott already agree?"

"Yeah," Stiles leaves out the relevant adjectives like _reluctantly l_. "So you might as well take advantage while I'm here."

He grins at Peter lewdly over the table, making a show of snaking his tongue around his fork as he shovels up another bite. Half of the mouthful goes tumbling on the table.

"You're making a mess," Peter observes, even if his eyes did stick to Stiles' mouth that extra second. That extra second matters. "Why do I have you around?"

"Hey, I was thinking the same thing," Stiles says around a mouthful of food, and Peter shuts him up by leaning in to lick stray sauce off his lower lip. It's unfair, because that was a tactic Stiles was more than prepared to use himself, but then Peter yanks him across the table to coax Stiles to settle in his lap, the food flying as the table sways and shifts.

Their mouths collide, sweet from teriyaki sauces, and Stiles gives himself thirty seconds of passion where their kisses go from languorous slides of their lips to something deeper that involves quite a bit of tongue action before he pulls back to shovel another forkful of food in his mouth. Peter watches with a raised eyebrow. He's hungry, dammit.

"You're the worst," Stiles says, just to make sure Peter knows. Now and again, he feels he has to say the occasional insensitive comment just to assure Peter that he hasn't fallen in love with him. Peter probably appreciates the indirect sentiment.

"If I was the best, I wouldn't be doing this with you," Peter says. His hand slides to Stiles' thigh as he talks. For a second, the words give him pause, like maybe Stiles tends to chase after people who are bad for him on purpose, whether for the challenge or for the rush, he doesn't know. It's moments like these where he looks too deep into the simplicity he and Peter have maintained between them, pulling up questions like why he even finds him attractive or why he agreed to any of this ludicrousness in the first place.

And then he remembers it's just sex, and those are the kind of introspective questions he's blissfully immune from, and goes back to chowing down his food so they can take this evening from PG to R rated.

* * *

The best part by far of Scott being in on the secret of Stiles' dastardly affair with Peter is Scott being able to cover up the sexathons, which is really just more than sixty hours in each other's company minus any and all clothing.

His dad thinks he's "sleeping over at Scott's," a horrendous lie confirmed by Scott should the sheriff feel the need to call the McCall residence to check on Stiles' whereabouts. They have everything but a Ferris Bueller style dummy in Stiles' stead underneath a sleeping bag in Scott's room.

The lying isn't great, even if there's at least four obstacles his dad would have to wrestle through to find the truth, the first being ditching his trust in Stiles and his ability to make decisions and the last finding Stiles' jeep in the parking lot of a questionable apartment in the thrum of the city after tracking the GPS in his car. Still, after all his years of lying about animal accidents and how he spends his Friday nights secretly running with—occasionally from—werewolves, lying about whose house he's in during the night and if it just so happens he'll be pleasured by an older man through most of it is surprisingly refreshing. Almost nice. Almost like this is the sort of thing he should be lying about as a teenager.

It takes about four weeks before things migrate from the shadows of Stiles' room for afterhours handjobs to Peter's place, an apartment kept hidden for so long Stiles was convinced he was either camping out in the woods or living in a cave stolen from a Batman movie set.

"Don't be ridiculous," Peter had said when Stiles had pointed out how much nicer his inner city apartment was to the shrubbery he had been expecting. "Indoor plumbing is a must."

Moving their arrangement to Peter's place had been alarming at best. It took whatever they shared out of the dark, away from the secrecy of a disheveled bedroom, into the reality of daylight. At the time it had seemed like the way their bodies whispered through sweat and groans couldn't survive the light, only knew how to touch in the safety and anonymity of the darkness, but then Peter had pushed him onto his sofa even as the traffic blared through the window and the sunlight poured through the curtains and everything was still just as toe-curling as it was in the safety of the shadows.

The thing about his thing with Peter is that he doesn't want anyone to see its inner workings. It goes beyond just the sheer terror of imagining his father walking in on him naked atop an older nameless gentleman, because Stiles wouldn't even want Scott to see him around Peter in fear of him or anybody else drawing inaccurate conclusions about their relationship. Sometimes they sit around a kitchen counter eating Chinese takeout and talk about the weather and when Stiles is finally getting an overdue haircut, and all of that isn't sexy. It's mind-numbingly normal. Stiles can practically see the squinting onlookers loudly misunderstanding were they to acquire a peephole into Peter and Stiles' private life.

He's just so unaware of how he acts around Peter. Sometimes he lays awake at night reliving the horror of the moments when he grew hard in public because he thought of him giving Stiles head, and that's just the sex. What if Stiles's body has grown accustomed to Peter's, what if it arches into him like a plant seeking out sunlight, what if he starts grinning when he walks in a room just because he knows what's in those pants? Stiles could never watch his own sextape, that's for sure. The idea of watching himself unabashedly rut against Peter's body and beg for more is too much embarrassment for one human body to handle.

So Peter's apartment, that's a safe place. No watchful eyes following him, no judgmental glowers in his direction, nobody whispering about him in the corner. People are free to do all these things, just not when Stiles is around. He already judges himself enough for this to have others join in.

But here's the downside to Peter's apartment: it means Stiles has to acknowledge that Peter is watching him, that Peter is aware of his every movement, and that Peter knows how hot and bothered he gets when Peter drags him on his lap. It forces him to accept that the person he's chosen to meaninglessly fuck is Peter Hale, mostly because his presence is everywhere in his own apartment. Imagine that.

He doesn't own a lot of things, but the things he does own speak for themselves. The pretentious leather couch that Stiles refuses to get naked on, the silky black sheets on the bed, the marble countertops and the porcelain dishes in the cupboard that imply that Peter actually does his own cooking. The closet full of v-necks and the adjacent bathroom full of musky aftershave. Everything smells like Peter, looks like Peter, feels sleek just like Peter. In the darkness of his own room, he could pretend that the man in between his legs was just about anybody if he closed his eyes and tried hard enough. Here, it's not so easy to pretend.

At least being at Peter's means no longer worrying about being caught. He's had dreams, horrible dreams that have him staring at his ceiling in horror, where he's being sucked off into heaven when his father materializes in the room just for the purpose of being disappointed. And then he blinks and it's his entire family, including the supposedly dead, all gravely shaking their head at Stiles' choices. He's not sure what they're judging, the homosexual sin part, the bit about using an older man to accomplish it, or that he's lying on his grandmother's homemade throw strewn over his bed while it's all happening.

Still, it's strange, looking at Peter's things and the appliances he uses. There's something oddly, unexplainably intimate about watching someone load a dishwasher, much more intimate than the same person then touching your genitals. Stiles hasn't figured out that particular mystery quite yet.

* * *

So the phrase "not cut out for it?" Doesn't apply to Stiles and Peter in the least.

It's actually a little disconcerting how well they do fit. He's not talking chronologically or mentally or even emotionally, but sexually, it works. Like shapes that just slot together after you experiment with the angles.

"I don't think that goes there."

"What are you talking about?" Stiles asks hotly over his shoulder while Peter stays no help at all. "This is where it goes."

"Put it on the other side," Peter advises loftily from where he's still naked on the couch, and Stiles doubtfully moves the lamp knocked awry because it was in the wrong place at the wrong time during a heated race to third base two feet to the left to the opposite end of the coffee table. Peter makes a vague noise of approval.

Stiles takes a step and surveys the room. Everything looks to be in place again with the exception of Peter's clothes still lying in a heap on the ground, which Stiles promptly scoops up to toss at Peter's head.

"I'm never having sex in my living room again," Stiles declares, firmly this time, as he rights the crooked lampshade. He's just being finicky now, but the less is out of place, the less his horribly observant sheriff father will notice and inevitably question. "You knock so much shit over."

"What can I say," Peter murmurs proudly from where he's stretching out on the sofa like a cat in the sun, hand on his belly. "I'm enthusiastic."

"I know," Stiles mumbles, and leaves it at that. He can't exactly complain when he's the one at the receiving end of Peter's enthusiasm. Idly, he touches a sore mark under his jaw that tingles at his touch. Must be fresh.

He's distracted a moment later by Peter throwing the bundle of clothes deposited on his face at Stiles' feet. Stiles crosses his arms.

"Would you get dressed?"

"No," Peter says easily, arching off the couch to snag Stiles by the waistband of his boxers and reel him in closer. "And I have no interest in the activities we could do while you're dressed either."

"Flower arranging? Robot building? Pottery painting? None of this rocking your boat?"

Peter tuts, unimpressed, and fists Stiles' shirt to pull him down onto his lap. For all his griping, Stiles goes willingly, straddling his hips and rutting against Peter's bare cock, the soft cotton of his boxers creating just enough friction for Peter to growl and yank him down by the hair. He sinks in teeth first, biting down on Stiles' lower lip, and Stiles reciprocates with flattening himself down on Peter's body, cocks deliciously aligned.

"This is not," Stiles mumbles between kisses, Peter shushing him with his tongue and digging the blunt of his nails into his neck, "something my dad," another sharp bite to his lower lip, "would approve of."

"Really," Peter says into his lips, words slick. He reaches down to slither his hand between the lack of space between their bodies and squeezes Stiles' dick through his underwear. "What about this?"

Stiles jumps. "Ah, not that either."

"Hmm," Peter squeezes him again, finger trailing the seam of Stiles' boxers and reveling in every shiver that shakes off Stiles' body in return. "Then let's just resign ourselves to a daddy unfriendly evening, shall we?"

The idea is plenty tempting, just rolling over and hooking his legs over Peter's hips and letting himself be corrupted with Peter's tongue, but then his eyes catch sight of the clock, slow by nineteen minutes, hanging over the mantle and he vaguely remembers that there is a reality that exists outside of sex. He pulls away from Peter's mouth just as a steady bruise is being sucked into his neck, hands firm on Peter's chest.

"Not here," Stiles says. "My dad said he'd be home at seven and I'm not ready to be disowned before college if he walks in and sees me taking a middle-aged man's dick."

"Middle-aged?"

"Really?" Stiles deadpans, sitting up. "That's the part of the sentence you focus on?"

Peter rolls his eyes, almost fond, and follows suit, rolling up on the couch so Stiles falls between his legs and his nails rake up his naked back. It feels like he's being lulled into acquiescence, Peter's fingertips trailing up and down his spine in relaxing lines, and Stiles wonders exactly when Peter figured out how much he enjoyed back stroking. He clambers off the couch, snatching the heap of Peter's clothes up to tuck under his arm, and Peter follows begrudgingly, stretching his shoulders as he goes.

"Fine," he says, and he's still naked from head to toe. Stiles takes a moment to collect himself before listening. "Where to?"

"My room," Stiles says. For one insane moment, he hopes he'll be reincarnated as Peter's pants just to forevermore feel the satisfaction of pressing up against Peter's cock. He's definitely not sharing that one out loud.

They go upstairs and manage to fit a dizzying sixty-nine session in before the telltale rumble of his father's tires on the driveway prompts Stiles to push Peter unceremoniously out the window, and his dad stays none the wiser as Stiles wanders innocently downstairs, tousled sex hair tamed and clothes back on and lamp perfectly in place. He's not one to toot his own horn, but he is _good_ at this keeping things under wraps thing.

* * *

Okay, so maybe he isn't quite as good as he thought he was.

For all his work with the lamp and the meticulous interior decorating to cover up his sex adventures, Stiles gets confronted two days after he rubs the come stain out of the sofa cushion.

It seems so innocent at first, Stiles bounding down the stairs looking for some barbecue chips to pilfer to his room to continue sexting with Peter, and then his dad is calling him over from where he can hear the TV murmuring in the living room for what he falsely assumes to be a pleasant chat.

And there's his dad, comfortably situated on the same spot Stiles was jerking Peter off on the couch just a few days ago, and Stiles tries to act as nonchalant as possible as he digests that fact. He sits down in the nearby armchair, the picture of unworried casualness, and tries to think about anything other than Peter's filthy words in his ear while he plowed into him on that exact pillow that his father's side is nestled against.

"What's up?" Stiles asks him.

"Just wanted to check in with you," the sheriff says in response. Innocent, it all sounds so innocent. False advertising, that. "Everything been going okay?"

Summer break, no homework, hanging out in GameStop with Scott, squeezing in a good amount of bedtime blowjobs. Can't complain.

"Yeah," Stiles says, scratching the back of his head. "I mean, no school is kind of nice."  
"Anything new in your life?"

That's where it starts sounding suspicious, the kind of question that someone already knows the answer to but is creating an opportunity to have it be said out loud. Stiles seesaws back and forth on the chair, slowly shaking his head. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he briefly slides it out. It reads _then I'd lick from your cock to your hole and spread you open for me with my tongue._ He turns pink and jams it back into his pocket.

"Nah," he says, very, very casually. He tries to remember how he did this back when he was keeping werewolf secrets under his belt, and if he had been at all convincing at the time. He smiles and tries to keep the fidgeting at a low. "You know me, same old."

Stiles can't think of a less accurate statement to describe his life even if he had time to leaf through a dictionary. It's never the same, always something new, always something crazy dangerous. His dad seems to catch on to the discrepancy as well.

His eyes flick down to Stiles' collarbone, visible by the neck of his t-shirt, and back up to his eyes. Stiles idly touches the spot where his gaze lands as he follows his father's eyes and consciously fights the cringe that tries to make itself present. Well, fuck. That souvenir from last night is one he never agreed to sneak into his suitcase.

"Listen, I think it's... really great," his dad says. "That you're in a relationship."

"Oh," Stiles feels every part of his body heat up in a fierce blush like someone's poured volcanic ash on him. "Yeah, it's. It's great."

His dad smiles, something unsure in the way his mouth tugs upwards, and Stiles has the feeling this isn't the end of this conversation. Chances are, he just waded out of the marginally pleasant part.

"Tell me about him," the sheriff says, all supportive grins, and Stiles freezes, because _him_. Not _her._ Not even close to sounding like he was saying her.

Oh. _Oh_. So he knows. Stiles feels a moment of white hot panic surge through him at wondering how much he knows, and what his sources are. Whoever they are, Stiles has to them cut them off straight at the piehole if only for forcing him into this conversation. It's probably ironic, Stiles thinks, because he can sit down with his dad having long discussions about the supernatural creatures in his life but struggles when talking about who he's been canoodling with. His phone vibrates against his ass again. The heat on his ears gets hotter still.

"Um," Stiles forces himself to look directly into his dad's eyes. His dad is friendly, his dad is great. Deep breaths. "He's, uh, different. How did you know—?"

The sheriff shrugs, clearly embarrassed that he found information about Stiles through the grapevine rather than Stiles himself. Stiles is positive he's still more embarrassed out of the two.

"Mrs. Privot told me," he says, pointing vaguely across the street. "She said she's seen you with a guy a few times."

He's probably leaving out the _behaving inappropriately by groping each other on the patio like they should be carrying an r-rating around with themselves_ that Mrs. Privot presumably added, only cementing Stiles' belief to never trust a woman who gardens before morning cartoons even come on in her hair curlers. He supposes this is what he gets for making out with Peter in full sight of the cul-de-sac even if he does maintain the unreasonable hopes that the neighborhood has more common courtesy than to spend their days spying through their windows at the rebellious young folk. He runs a hand shakily through his hair.

"Listen," his dad speaks up before he has the chance, clapping a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "I don't mind. I think it's nice that you're in a relationship, and you don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to."

"Thanks, dad," Stiles says, and he's thinking he's going to have to go for the latter. There's just no good way to chatter on about his middle-aged serial killer werewolf fuck buddy. Yeah, no.

"Just know that I wouldn't be against you bringing him by for dinner," his dad suggests. "I promise I wouldn't pull my gun on him."

That idea's a straight up _hell no_, but for the sake of his father's sanity he nods along pleasantly like he's actually considering the idea. He's not. He's considering the best way to turn the nosy curmudgeon across the street blind without it looking like he was involved in the incident.

"Sure," Stiles nods. "I'll ask." His phone is vibrating in his pants again, and it sears his butt like a reminder of how very uncomfortable this conversation is. He shoots to his feet. "I'm just gonna."

He points to the stairs and is one, two, three blissful steps closer to freedom when his father cuts in with a sharp, "Hold it."

And god, he knows more. The worst of the worst scenarios are running through Stiles' head, making him slightly nauseas, and he never ever should've agreed to do anything with Peter that he wouldn't feel comfortable doing if his father were watching. Rules he should start living by.

He turns around, quite petrified, and there's his dad with outstretched arms waiting for him to close the conversation with a pat on the back and a fatherly hug. Stiles lets himself inhale again and leans in to wrap his arms around him, laughing uneasily over his shoulder.

"I hope you know you can tell me anything, Stiles," his dad says after three solid pats. He pulls away. "I won't judge."

A statement Stiles isn't in the mood for testing. He could easily smile, clap his father on the back and challenge his declaration of support with the facts of his boyfriend's age, criminal records, and the small snag where he's not really his boyfriend, just his convenient sex partner. Instead he nods like he understands and pulls back from the hug.

"I know, dad," Stiles says while his brain thinks _if only you knew_. "And I will." _But not about this_.

He all but trips over himself in his effort to amble back up to his room. Forget about salt and fast food, now _this_ would be responsible for his father's heart attack.

* * *

"We have to instigate some rules," Stiles says one day later when a good twenty-four hours and a long sleep have washed the memory of his father congratulating him on his new gay lover successfully out of his mind. Two of Peter's fingers are in the middle of sliding into him in the back of his Jeep parked so very far away from his father's jurisdiction they might have made it to Mexico borders, but he's never prided himself on his exceptional timing before.

Looming above him, Peter furrows his eyebrows. "What?" He says, like the ideas of regulations are foreign to him. They probably are. "No. There's no need for rules. This is sex. Anything goes."

He says it airily, like that's the end of that, so Stiles grabs a handful of his fastidiously slicked hair to hold onto his attention.

"Rules," he repeats, more firmly this time.

Peter raises an eyebrow and gets back to sliding his fingers in to the knuckle. It briefly wipes the air from Stiles' lungs, and he stares pointedly at where he's pushing Stiles' leg up by the knee and is circling his rim with his fingers. "Seems a bit late for that."

Stiles tries to concentrate, even as Peter's fingers slip out, then straight back in, this time aiming for his prostate. Life blurs over for a moment in the dark mugginess surrounding the car, and he tries to find focus on the upholstered ceiling. Right. Rules. He seizes Peter's wrist and tries to stall him, which if anything, only encourages Peter to try that much harder to distract him. He leans in, tongue finding the back of Stiles' knee.

"Stop it," Stiles mumbles, half-heartedly at best. His hips jerk as Peter finds his prostate, the breathy moans leaking from his mouth contradicting his demands horribly. "I had the worst—_oh_. The worst conversation with my dad."

"Ugh," Peter says, twisting his fingers sharply and making Stiles jump and hiss. "Bring him up another time. Honestly. I'm fucking you on my fingers."

But he doesn't stop, not even in tempo, scissoring his fingers apart and sliding his free hand down Stiles' thigh, kneading at the sensitive skin on Stiles' leg as he goes. It's too hot to be doing this, too hot to even leave the house, so he doesn't know why he agreed to an under the radar romp in the pants in his car when he knows the air conditioning broke months ago. Peter has sucked all the logic out of his body.

"He saw us," Stiles gasps out, trying his very hardest to retain his composure. Peter's reached around to lazily pump his erection in time with the thrusts of his fingers, and Stiles fights the simultaneous urges to beg him to speed up and swat his hand away. This is a serious conversation. "Actually. Mrs. Privot saw us."

"A name that bears no meaning for me," Peter murmurs around Stiles' slick knee where he's dragging his teeth up and down.

"My _neighbor_," Stiles clarifies in the one short breath his lungs allow. "She tattled on us and now—sweet jesus, _come on_," Stiles gasps out in a moment of weakness, Peter's fist frustratingly loose on his cock. "Now my dad thinks I have a boyfriend."

"This story is already longer than I wanted it to be," Peter says. He sounds awfully bored for a man twisting his fingers into Stiles, slipping in a third without warning. The stretch drags through Stiles before he crooks his fingertips toward his prostate again, this time lingering on it. Stiles throws his head back and hits the car door, the entire car creaking in response. If the windows start fogging up like Titantic, he's leaving. "Get to the point."

"Fine," Stiles grits out between his teeth. He's already close to the edge, and having to force out words before he loses his train of thought entirely is nearly physically agonizing. "No more making out in public places."

Peter narrows his eyes at him, apparently considering it, and pulls his fingers out, Stiles' hips bucking just to chase them. He pauses, fingers poised at his hole and rubbing along the edge, and leans in. "Fine," he says too. "Then no more emotional monologues."

He slips his fingers back in, harder this time, and Stiles thinks it's an amazing accomplishment that he manages to speak through it. "Emotional monologues?" he repeats defensively, and then grips Peter's arm in a talon-like grasp just to stay afloat as Peter pumps his fingers in faster. "What?"

"All the _talking_," Peter explains, rolling his eyes like every time Stiles opens his mouth and he's forced to listen he ages five years. "Learn to close your mouth."

"Ugh," Stiles groans, and he'll get him back for that one when he's more coherent. He moves his grip from Peter's arm to his hair, yanking just a little to make it sting. Peter responds with a sharp push of his fingers into Stiles, this one a little earth-shattering, and Stiles bites down on his lip to keep the noises at bay. "No more texting me dirty things when you know I'm hanging out with Scott." He circles his hips into Peter's fingers. "Or my dad, fuck."

"No more talking about _rules_ when I'm trying to make you come," Peter grits out next, and that's one regulation Stiles can get behind. He nods shakily and closes his eyes, breathing through the heat in the air that's nearly suffocating next to the ruthless thrusts of Peter's fingers, fast and hard.

Peter's hand twists upward on his cock, pulling a whine from him, and then he's pressing kisses down Stiles' leg and pushing his fingers with a sharp push that has Stiles seeing stars. He moans out something that might have started with a _P_ and ended with a _t_ and an _r_, and then he's coming with jerks of his hips that don't deter Peter's fist sliding up and down his length until he's completely spent and almost passed out in the backseat. A wave of heat washes over him, reminding him of the summer night around him, and when he opens his eyes he's grinning lazily at the upholstery.

"I'm going to die of heatstroke," Stiles mentions off-handedly, the hand in Peter's hair drifting down to land on his chest, equally sweaty as his. "But that was worth it."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Peter pipes up with a clearing of his throat, nudging his erection into Stiles' leg. Stiles glances at him from where he's stuck to the leather seats, sweaty and sated, and reaches out to languorously slide his hand up Peter's leg and stroke his length.

"I have another rule," Stiles brings up, detaching himself from the seats. "No more sex in cars with _leather seats_. I think I just lost a layer of skin."

"So sexy," Peter murmurs, bucking his hips into Stiles' hand, and promptly crawls on top of him, pushing him back down to the seats. "Didn't I say less talking?"

"Maybe I chose not to hear that," Stiles says, stifling the laughter that threatens to fall out of his mouth when Peter closes his teeth on his shoulder, biting down where it's particularly sensitive. He squeezes his cock for that and Peter growls, grabbing his free hand to pin over his head onto the window, muggy in the heat. The urge to arch up and chase Peter's mouth is almost overwhelming, like Peter's a drug he needs more of, needs another fix from, and Peter seems to be having the same thought as he tilts his mouth down and slots their lips together.

Needless to say, Stiles stops talking.

* * *

It's only been a few weeks, and Stiles is already used to the weight of a body next to him in bed.

It's a bit ridiculous, actually, because it's nearing the end of a steamy July and a good three months ago, Stiles' best companion was his right hand. Sometimes his left hand if he wanted more of a challenge. He adapts too fast, a trait evolution probably wasn't prepared for, and now here he is wide awake while he lays sprawled over his sheets staring at the darkness of his ceiling. The bed feels too warm, the linen too hot for his skin, and even though his limbs feel exhausted after battling the blazing sun all day, his mind is as awake as ever. He blinks, watching the way spots of light travel when cars drive slowly through the neighborhood below.

It's not that Peter even sleeps over all that often anyway. Lack of room is one problem, the only solutions being either one of them camping out on the floor or lying tangled together as one octopus-limbed unit spread out on two feet of space, options Stiles finds less than favorable. The sheer idea of the sheriff overhearing them or worse, wandering unsuspectingly into Stiles' room when he's forgotten the crucial importance of locking the door, is another problem. The last problem—either the most significant or the most trivial, Stiles can't be sure—is avoiding the intimacy that comes with spending the night at your booty call's house. It's a strictly in and out arrangement, like ten dollar hookers.

He stares at the ceiling, pretending in vain to be fascinated by the shadows playing over the popcorn notches. The one thing he was never prepared for when he agreed to start having sex on a regular basis was that masturbation would start paling in comparison. A good orgasm would probably help close his eyes.

He toys with the idea of calling Peter for six minutes in his head, wondering exactly how much fun he'd be made of if he confided that he's having trouble sleeping without Peter serving him up an orgasm to go. Counting sheep used to do the trick, and he tries valiantly to imagine furry animals pouncing overhead until that ends up sprouting more questions in his head about the lifestyles of sheep than he began with and he starts considering pulling up google and conducting some harmless research. Okay, fine, he'll call Peter.

He checks the clock by the bed as he dials, the bright neon numbers 2:11 A.M. shining back at him. If Peter grumbles at him for waking him up, he'll just pull an old man joke out of his ass. That'll wake Peter right up.

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" Peter says three rings later, and it seems he got to the age jokes before Stiles could.

"I was about to say the same thing."

"What is it you want, Stiles?" Peter asks, looking to get straight past the formalities.

"I can't sleep," he says into the phone, softer than intended. He never means to be soft around Peter. He makes a conscious effort to be hard around the edges, but then a gentle breeze blows through the darkness on the other side of the window and the night seems to lull him back into something relaxed and quiet that rarely exists during the daytime.

"And you want me to sing you a lullaby?"

Stiles stares hard at the ceiling and wonders if hanging up now would be the best option. It probably would be, but there's a stirring in his midsection, something that's still young enough to ignore, but Stiles wants to feed it. That's how everything he does starts—he fuels an inkling until it's a full blown mess, whether it be wandering in the woods to look for bodies or having sex with Peter Hale.

"No," Stiles says. He pauses to play with a stray thread hanging off the waistband of his pajama pants. "What if I said yes?"

"You'll find that I have a spectacular singing voice," Peter says smoothly without missing a beat. Stiles fights the urge to smile and rolls his eyes simultaneously. That, in under a second, is how he feels about Peter, which is still better than the trembles of terror that he used to induce. Perhaps that's what growth is, Stiles thinks.

"I already tried counting sheep," Stiles says. He hears Peter breathe on the other end of the phone—just barely audible exhales that drift over the line—and he realizes he doesn't even know why he called. Maybe it's the recklessness that comes with staying up past midnight. There's something invincible about the deep hours of the night. "I just can't sleep."

There's a moment of silence where Stiles thinks Peter's lost interest in the conversation and the call is over, and then he hears, "Then don't."

"What?"

"Don't sleep," Peter emphasizes. "Where are your hands?"

The fingers that aren't curled around his cell phone twitch on his thigh. He drags them up and hitches the cotton of his pants into wrinkles as he goes.

"Attached to my arms," Stiles says, and he swears he hears a second's worth of a chuckle filter through the phone. He slides his palm back down, smoothing over his thigh, and the touch tingles this time. "Are yours disembodied?"

"Can you take orders from me, Stiles?" Peter asks, and there's an edge in his voice that Stiles recognizes as restraint. He's only ever heard it a handful of times, not when people like Peter indulge in their every whim whether it be late night snacks or murdering the neighbor, but when it's there, Stiles can tell. It slices through the phone like a blade of warning.

"Depends," Stiles tells him, shifting on the sheets.

"You don't want to sleep?" Peter asks, and Stiles nods. He seems to know. "Touch yourself."

"Touch myself?" Stiles repeats faintly, but he lets his fingers trail down his torso anyway. They linger by his thigh, right where the seam of his pajama pants brushes his hand.

"Just a bit," Peter murmurs. "Don't want you getting excited too quickly."

Stiles listens, maybe because he's suicidal, and presses his palm into his cock through his boxers.

He exhales, another gust of warm wind rushing over him through the window as he slides his hand over the seam of his pants to cup his hardening cock. He rolls his hips into his grip, gently squeezing.

"Are you touching yourself?" Peter asks, seemingly riveted by the idea that somewhere in Beacon Hills Stiles is at the mercy of his own wandering hand.

"Yeah," Stiles says. He wonders if this should be weird, sharing this intimacy without physically touching, just their voices breathing their pleasure through the phone, or if this is just another thing he and Peter do together that no one would understand should he have to explain it. "Through my pants."

"Good, good," Peter murmurs. "Are you hard?"

Embarrassingly so already, Stiles thinks. Something about this feels naughtier than all the rest they do. Maybe it's because they operate purely on ardent touches and strong fingers creating bruises like possessive lipstick marks, not imagining each other behind their eyelids as they make themselves come to sound of each other's voice. Stiles should, by all means, be imagining the pretty waitress he saw yesterday with the creamy complexion, or the beautiful babysitter he had dreamed about kissing when he was seven, but he's not, he's imagining Peter bent over his body licking a wet stripe up his neck while stroking him slowly.

"Yeah, I am," Stiles admits, squeezing his dick through the flannel barrier of his pants again. He parts his legs, just an inch, and a tiny whimper escapes his mouth. "Can I take my pants off?"

And he doesn't even know why he asks. Maybe he's more of a sucker for Peter purring commands in the phone than he thinks, and he keens waiting for an answer. He's glad he stayed up now, even gladder that he gave in and called Peter.

"Take them off," Peter says, and Stiles gets to work kicking them aside. The air suddenly feels muggier, hotter, much too warm for an open window on a July night. He lets his boxers follow suit, not at all interested in their presence right now, and wraps his hand around his naked cock.

He rubs his thumb over the head of his dick, hips tilting into the touches as he lets his eyes close. Like this, he can almost pretend that it's Peter stroking him even though their hands are different. Stiles had felt it first the first time he had another man's hand actively working his cock—Peter's hands were rougher, his fingers not as long, his technique ranging from much slower to more feral at times.

Peter's voice rumbling through the phone reminds him of the phone warm against his ear. "Keep that pretty mouth talking for me, Stiles."

"Just thinking about what your hands feel like on me," Stiles tells him. He feels a phantom shiver run up his legs at the memory of the way Peter touches him, fingertips ghosting up his thighs and nails lightly scraping back down. His hands have been everywhere on Stiles, touched everything, and he wonders if he'll ever be able to let another hand touch him when he knows what it felt like to have Peter do it first, and probably better.

"What do they feel like?" Peter coaxes.

"Different than mine," Stiles huffs out on a laugh. He's getting slightly breathless as he pulls on his cock, speeding up his pace even though there's something in the hot night luring him to go slowly, just like the warmth that washes over him with every lazy breeze.

For seventeen years of his life Stiles always thought that he'd know what he likes best when it comes to fingers on his dick trying to get him to come, but apparently, Peter's thirty plus years on him has given him experience Stiles' hand hadn't yet learned. He twists his hand as he strokes up, running his thumb down the underside as he goes, and can practically imagine Peter's hand on him teaching him new tricks.

"I can picture you perfectly," Peter is murmuring through the phone. "Thin layer of sweat, mouth open, slender hands wrapped around yourself while you pretend it's me. Are you pretending so?"

Stiles plays with the precome dotted at the head of his dick. "Yeah, _yes_."

"How I'd crawl up your body and whisper in your ear that I'm going to put you on your hands and knees and fuck you until you're spent," Peter's words are so filthy, so perfect for feeding his mind's eye's thirst for imagination. "Tease my hardness against your thigh and then have you suck me off. Your pink lips pulling me into your mouth and slicking me up for your hole."

Something about Peter's voice is so melodic, so lulling, like an anchor dragging him closer to the tide that sweeps him under with bursts of pleasure, and he feels himself inch closer, very close, just a bit more—

"Now stop," Peter says sharply, and Stiles feels his hands stutter where they're wrapped around his cock. "Pull your hand away."

"Peter," is the first thing that Stiles says, whining and greedy. His fingers twitch on his thigh, desperate to misbehave.

"Not yet," Peter tells him. "How hard are you, Stiles? Are you close?"

His voice has taken on an edge like sticky honey, low and filthy and music to Stiles' ears. His cock is aching, and the need to come pulls at him like a hook in his stomach, and _if only Peter were here right now_.

"So hard it fucking hurts," Stiles says. Through the darkness, he sees the smattering of shiny wetness on the head of his cock, precome his fingers want to smear down to the base, but something holds him back. "I want to touch, _please_."

"In a minute, sweetheart," Peter is murmuring, and Stiles is so strung up with what feels electricity holding him captive that he doesn't bother berating him for the nicknames he can't stand. "I want you to tell me. Tell me what you want."

He's not good at this. Stiles always feels the words knot up in his tongue, get lost in translation, come out unsure and awkward. Then Peter practically purrs on the other side of the line, coaxing him to speak, and Stiles gives in.

"I wanna come," he tells him, fingers itching to get closer again. "Wish you were touching me, cause you always tease."

"You like being teased?"

"Maybe I do," Stiles whispers, and he slides his knees up. "Let me touch, please."

"Okay. But first, put your fingers in your mouth," he says. "Okay. But first, put your fingers in your mouth," he says. Stiles curses under his breath, knowing full well Peter is listening.

He does as he's told, slipping two fingers into his mouth and wrapping his tongue around them. Peter would be downright panting if he could see Stiles now, how he rolls his knuckles into his mouth and wets them while keeping eye contact. It's an oral fixation he's always had, whether it he sticking pens in his mouth or sucking on lollipops in elementary school or now, dicks.

"Now move lower," Peter says, and Stiles' heart stutters. He wonders if Peter can hear it through the phone. "Touch your hole."

Stiles nods, slipping his wetted fingers down, past his dick, all the way down to his entrance. He tips his legs apart a few shaky inches, circling his hole with his fingertip. He does it slowly, like how Peter likes to do it when he's trying to get Stiles to beg for it. He feels the muscle, feels the way it pulses against his touch, and slides in a single finger. It reminds him of the last time they fucked, how Peter had taken his time fingering him open slowly and steadily.

"Tell me how it feels," Peter murmurs. Stiles vaguely registers the sound of shifting fabric, like Peter's slipped out of his pants or is gripping himself through his boxers, and lets out an involuntary moan at the thought mixed with the way his finger is slipped in to the knuckle. "Tell me you're imagining it's my hand."

"Obviously," Stiles huffs out on a breathless laugh. He can practically see Peter in front of him, crouched between his legs sliding in finger after finger and watching Stiles' each reaction with rapt attention. Peter's gaze never wavers when he's got Stiles naked and spread out in front of him, almost fixed on his eyes, his lips, the heaves of his chest as he gets closer and closer to coming.

"I can imagine you," Peter murmurs. His voice sounds low and breathy, exactly how he would if he was leaning in close to Stiles' ear to tease him. Stiles knows these things about Peter, things no one else probably does. "Thighs shaking, head thrown back. The way you fuck yourself on my fingers. Making these sinful noises that make me want to fuck you on all fours."

Stiles can't help it, he whimpers. Peter's has the dirtiest mouth, the kind Stiles very much wants to punch when he's wearing clothes and kiss when he's not. His excessive need to decorate his words comes in handy when he's describing to Stiles exactly how he'd fuck him, how he'd lick him open and stretch him with his fingers until Stiles is sobbing with need. He paints the kind of pictures that could work as Stiles' masturbatory aid for centuries.

"Keep going," Stiles manages to say. He's pushed another finger in, slipping both of them in to the knuckle, a soft hiss escaping him at the drag.

"So needy," Peter laughs. Even his laugh makes Stiles' harder, and he's not entirely sure what that means. He wants to touch, wants to slide his hand over his cock, but Peter would never let him. Peter would want him to come just from his fingers, just from playing with his hole. "You first."

"Fine," Stiles agrees, and slips his fingers out. He pushes them back in and exhales on a shaky moan. "Two fingers now. Doesn't feel full enough."

"Oh really?" Peter murmurs. "What would?"

"Your cock," Stiles says. He's burning up, his from his cheeks to his legs, the humidity of the night only partly contributing to the redness on his face. God knows what Peter did to make Stiles agree to talk filth with him over the phone. "Wish you'd be fucking me."

Peter exhales very slowly this time, like Stiles has succeeded in pushing his buttons. It makes Stiles grin through the breathlessness, the rhythm of his fingers making his wrist cramp and his hand grow tired, but he doesn't dare think about stopping.

"How would you like to be fucked?" Peter asks him, low and rough like honey. Stiles takes another breath.

"I'd like to ride you," he says. "Until it'd get too much and you'd—you'd flip me over and fuck me."

"Mmm," It's just a soft syllable, but it sounds reverent and fascinated, like there's no one else he'd like to be sitting up at two in the morning talking riding and fingering with. The feeling is mutual, not that Stiles would say it out loud. "You sweaty, your hand on my hip while you take my dick. Perfect."

It does sound perfect, like the most ideal Saturday afternoon ever after eighteen years worth of near death experiences and uncomfortably deadly encounters, never mind that it's with a man twice his age with a mind bent for murder. Their bodies are in sync, perfectly attuned to each other after months of _you like that?_s and _yeah, I do_s. Peter knows exactly how he wants it, even if he doesn't ask for it out loud.

He pushes his fingers in and whines, his cock craving a slick hand and his hole wanting a better fuck. He positions his phone between his ear and his shoulder and asks, "Please, I wanna—I need to touch—"

"Do it," Peter says right away. Stiles doesn't waste time, reaching down with his free hand to slide over his cock. He moans right there, too loud in the softness of the night, and tips his head back onto the pillow stuffed under his neck. His toes are curling now, the sensations of his hand and his fingers combining into something that's too much, too disorienting.

Stiles comes with a cry that spills from his lips without asking, hips shaking with rolls of pleasure as he tumbles over the edge. White dots speckle his vision for a good few seconds where he wonders if he's being pulled to heaven's pearly gates, and then Peter's low chuckle interrupts his otherworldly pleasure. He opens his eyes, and there's come splattered over his thigh and a generous portion of his sheets.

"I know you're alive," Peter says over the phone. "I can hear you breathing."

"A near death experience, then," Stiles says, still breathless. "I think I saw a dead grandmother for a second there."

"Impressive," Peter murmurs. Stiles ought to stop feeding his ego so much before he becomes bloated with Stiles' praise. He sounds quite composed, too much to have come, and Stiles furrows his eyebrows.

"Did you come?" he asks. He probably shouldn't care, but he wasn't raised in the jungle and asking a few courtesy questions never killed anybody.

"No," Peter says. "Knowing how fingered open you are… I'd rather bend you over a table and fuck you than come by myself."

Stiles feels his throat go dry and his dick give a feeble twitch by his thigh.

"Seriously?"

"No, I'm just teasing," Peter growls, sounding impatient. Stiles picks up on the rustle of clothes through the lines. "Come over."

"To your place?" Stiles asks. "To spend the night?"

"You can spend the night if you don't plan on sleeping."

Sleeping? The idea of Peter, still hard and itching to fuck Stiles the second he walks through the door is enough to pump him up to the idea of rocketing to the moon right about now. He wonders how quickly he can do laundry—or alternatively, stuff his come-stained sheets under the bed where they can wallow in shame and hide from his father—and checks the clock blinking on the nightstand. He grins.

"Deal," he says, jumping to his feet and balancing the phone between his ear and his shoulder. "Come pick me up." When Peter huffs, like being assigned chauffeur was never something he agreed to, he adds, "How badly do you want to fuck me again?"

Peter pauses. Stiles can practically hear him smirk. "Bribing me?" he murmurs. "I'm impressed. I'm coming."

"In more than just one way, eh?" Stiles says suggestively, a lewd waggle to his eyebrows as he chuckles at his own humor, and the line clicks dead. Whatever, Stiles is freaking hilarious.

* * *

Peter announces himself in Stiles' slumbering cul-de-sac approximately two hours past midnight right during Mrs. Privot's stage three sleep not with a polite knock on his window or by shimmying up the drainpipe like the certified monkey he's proven himself to be, but rather by blasting loudly disruptive rock music from his car radio. It seems to shake the whole neighborhood as it first starts playing, jolting Stiles out of the post-orgasmic lull he was enjoying as he stuffs a few just-in-case tubes of lube in the back pocket of his sweats.

"Are you fucking insane?" Stiles hisses once he clambers into the passenger seat and cranks down the volume with scrambling hands.

"I have testimonials that would say so, yes," Peter murmurs, completely unperturbed even as Stiles is casting wary looks out the window for lights flicking on in bedrooms and disgruntled families in slippers coming to investigate the ruckus from their driveways. "But this was just laziness."

Laziness. Stiles doesn't know if he should be impressed or disturbed. He settles for passive-aggressively buckling up.

"Just drive," he demands impatiently, and Peter actually listens and pulls out of the neighborhood, sleek car vanishing in the darkness.

* * *

Despite his promise, Stiles falls asleep on the ride into the inner city where Peter's apartment awaits, sweats too comfy and car ride too soothing to keep him awake. His limbs are still lax from coming twenty minutes ago and the soft warmth drifting in through the window as Peter drives is like a sleepy breeze ruffling his hair, perfect conditions for tipping his head against the window and closing his eyes.

He's jolted awake fifteen minutes later by Peter nudging him in the side, and he takes another thirty seconds to remember his whereabouts. Right, sex in Peter's apartment. All night sexathon. He nods to himself as he remembers, vision groggy as he tries to awaken himself, and Peter huffs out laughter at watching him try to orient himself.

"Don't laugh, I'm awake," Stiles assures him, reaching for the car door and stepping out. The world is dark and quiet, even in the busier parts of the city, and it's not helping Stiles stay awake. Peter appears beside him, steadying him with a hand on his arm.

They make it upstairs, Stiles pinching his forearms on the way to alert himself and scare the last vestiges of sleep away. Peter unlocks the door as Stiles is slapping himself aware, strolling in first. He seizes Peter's wrist and pulls him in once the door is shut behind them, pushing their chests together.

"Okay, let's do this," Stiles says with the enthusiasm of a PE teacher, wrapping his arms around Peter's shoulders and leaning in to mash their lips together and get this party started. Peter indulges him with a slow kiss with twining tongues, putting it to an end a moment later by tugging Stiles' arms off his shoulders.

"Get in the bed," Peter murmurs, and when Stiles nods, he grabs his wrists to stop him. "To _sleep_."

"What? No!" Stiles rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet to show just how awake and ready he is. "You don't want some of this?" He puckers his lips and motions to his body, perhaps not in its most seductive state in his sweatpants and ratty t-shirt, but hey, he has sex appeal.

"Normally, I would insist," Peter assures him, starting to back him up toward the bed. "But I'm not quite sure I'm up for fucking you when I know you'll fall asleep halfway through. That sort of thing could bruise a man's ego."

"You can bruise me anyway you want," Stiles murmurs on his neck, and then his knees hit the bed and he falls gracelessly backward onto Peter's mattress. His sheets are soft and cool, luring him to take off his pants and pass out for the next ten hours, but Stiles won't give up without a fight. He sits up. "Since when do you care for my well-being?"

"I need you well-rested," Peter says with a smirk. "I'll fuck you tomorrow."

"This is a slippery slope," Stiles grumbles even as he starts pulling his shirt off his head and tugging the sheets up over his knees. "Before you know it we'll only be having sex three times a week."

"_Insatiable_," Peter murmurs, and he props one knee up on the mattress to lean in and push their lips together, just a quick promise of incoming passion tomorrow. Stiles continues grumbling, but he's quite exhausted and slumber is calling him closer with open arms, so he lets the argument slide. He slips his pants off and decides to let his underwear follow. Being modest has probably flown out the window by now.

"This is the part where you tuck me in," Stiles says petulantly as Peter slips out of his pants and flicks on the bedside lamp. "I want to be swaddled like a burrito and read a bedtime story, no less than fifty pages."

Peter snorts, just something quiet and amused by Stiles' antics that don't fail to deliver even at three in the morning. He folds his pants together, Stiles watching the flex of his back as the golden glow of the lamp licks up his spine and shades his muscles like a detailed drawing. There is a water bottle on Stiles' side of the bed, unopened and inviting on the bedside table, and it feels like it might have been put there for him.

For a second he feels the need to reach out and thank Peter for letting him stay, because there they are, both naked and tucked under the sheets but decidedly not tucked around each other, and it feels nothing like what Peter's original terms of condition had been. Sex all night, not a moment of falling prey to something as boring as sleep. Sleep is for the weak, after all.

"So not even a little something-something under the covers, huh?" Stiles asks, lowering his voice as Peter flicks the light off and the apartment is blanketed in a serene quiet.

"So insistent," Peter mumbles, rolling onto his back, and leaves it at that. For a moment it all feels very private, laying in the dark next to Peter in his bed, wrapped in sheets that smell like his aftershave. Sex feels like the habitual thing to do, the thing they've been routinely doing for weeks whenever they're alone together, but oddly enough, it feels just as relaxing without the swapping of bodily fluids. Just lying there. Unconcerned about where the hands should be or where to touch.

"Fine, I'll wait," Stiles says back into the silence. He spares a glance in Peter's direction, eyes falling on the line of his silhouette. "Just so you know, I'm a sleep snuggler."

"I should have known," Peter says. "I should start asking more questions to the people I take to bed."

"Make a questionnaire," Stiles murmurs around a yawn. "You never know what freaks you'll bring here otherwise."

Peter chuckles, a softer sound than usual. "Glad I dodged a bullet this time."

And if he says anything else, Stiles' body is too eager to pull him to sleep for him to hear it.

* * *

True to his word, Stiles wakes up with his legs draped over Peter's and his mouth tucked into his neck. It's a quirky trait that was one of the reasons his father thought it unnecessary to buy him anything larger than a twin bed, as no one is ever quite brave enough to share a bed with him twice. It's actually a little surprising he doesn't wake up to being bodily kicked to the floor for getting too handsy in his sleep, instead just to Peter's impatient huff as he tries to wriggle his body free from Stiles' clutches.

"Nice try," Stiles says through a sleepy smile. His limbs feel incredibly loose and his muscles feel lax, uninterested in moving more than what is absolutely necessary. Peter's mattress is magical. That, or Peter's chest is particularly soft. "Once I'm on you, there's no escaping."

"I feel sorry for everyone who's ever had to endure this situation," Peter says dryly, prying Stiles from his neck by the tuft of hair on the back of his neck. "Remind me why I let you stay the night."

"So you could fuck me in the morning," Stiles says, his smile growing. He hand slips down from Peter's chest to feel him through the thin sheets, nudging his groin and feeling the noticeable presence of his morning erection. Peter stills his wandering hand by the wrist.

"Brush your teeth first," Peter demands, leaving no room for argument. Stiles really shouldn't be surprised by his bluntness at his point.

"Oh, come on," Stiles groans. "We don't have to kiss."

"You always do." Peter tells him, unpersuaded.

"So I can use your toothpaste and your toothbrush?" Stiles asks. Peter wrinkles his nose at the idea of sharing his personal hygiene products.

"I'll buy you your own," Peter promises, the hand around his shoulder sliding down to pat his ass. It certainly doesn't stomp on his fervor for early morning sex.

"You're gonna buy me bathroom essentials?"

"You're not moving in," Peter clarifies with a pinch to his hip. "I just happen to prefer you with fresh breath."

"Romantic," Stiles says dryly. It's oddly amusing, sitting here with Peter bickering over the requirements of having sex before breakfast. If he could fly back in time and tell his past self that one day, he'd be lying naked on Peter Hale's chest squabbling over the freshness of Stiles' teeth, he would probably have to sit down and reach for his inhaler.

Then again, he doesn't remember it being this comfortable a few weeks ago when this first started. The sex had been messy, no words really necessary other than the ones that stumbled out in the heat of the moment, and that was only after Stiles had passed his phase of uncertainty, unsure how to touch a man and unsure how to take off his clothes. The first few blowjobs had only happened in the safety of his pitch black bathroom, and even then, every second felt like an opportunity to whip around and make sure his family hadn't appeared out of thin air around him just to impart judgment.

"So," Stiles mumbles from where he's stretched out on Peter's chest. It feels a bit like he's starfished himself there, content feeling his warm skin contract with every breath. "How does murder impact your conscience?"

Peter's fingers freeze where they're trailing rhythmically up and down Stiles' side. "I assure you, I sleep very well at night," he says, unamused. "You should give it a try."

Stiles' response is a dry laugh that would probably be longer if only Peter's chest wasn't so distracting. God, that trail down under just barely covered with the sheets could probably be recruited into the army as a torture device. "So no remorse?"

"You don't feel remorse when stepping on insects, do you?"

Stiles props himself up on Peter's chest, eyebrows knotted together. It sounds so simple when he wraps it up like that, like he and Stiles are kindred spirits, or maybe that the entire human race is destined to embrace their primal urges. Peter watches him with a curious tilt to his mouth which, unfortunately, is no less distracting than his chest.

"You're comparing humans to bugs?"

"A life is a life," Peter says, just like that. "People who think they're perfectly innocent while they grind beetles under their shoes are..." He grins. "...living in a very delicate state of mind. One bent specifically to their idea of what murder is."

"That's," Stiles tries to think of an adequate word, "just twisted."

"It really isn't," Peter says with a heavy sigh, stretching out and pillowing his head on his arms. He looks perfectly at ease, which is more than Stiles can say during the current conversation. "Just because ants and flies don't scream you think they don't feel pain? That they deserve murder?"

Stiles tries to process this. He sits up entirely, forgoing the idea of a morning rub under the sheets. He crosses his legs together and makes sure to keep a distance lest Peter try and distract him by running his fingernails up and down his back until he's complacent.

"When did you become an insect rights activist?"

"I didn't," Peter says with a shrug. "No one is. That's the point."

"Hold on," Stiles says. "So you're saying that if you could murder all those people you killed all over again, you would?"

"They deserved it," Peter says. His eyes flick up and down Stiles like he's reading his defensive body language and seems to send his last hopes for a slow morning fuck out the window. He sits up with a sigh, tossing the sheets aside as he wanders to the kitchen, idly scratching his stomach as he wanders to the fridge in the nude. "Do you want coffee?"

What he wants is to erase this conversation and his will to have it from his mind, much more than bitter coffee that Peter insists on serving without cream or sugar. "So it was only ever the people involved in the fire you killed," Stiles tries to clarify, watching Peter's back flex as he grabs his mug from one of the upper cabinets. "Right? How many people have you killed, actually?"

"Do you want a list?" Peter murmurs over his shoulders, the epitome of nonchalance. Stiles does not want to see a fucking list. He suddenly feels very aware of how very naked he is in a murderer's apartment, and why Peter wanted this to be strictly sex. No talking.

"This has been lovely," Stiles says dryly, not bothering to answer his question as he struggles to climb into his sweats. He checks the watch on his wrist, still plenty early but too late to be sitting in the harsh morning light of Peter's apartment, and pulls his shirt over his head. "I'd better go before my dad starts getting suspicious."

"As nice as it is that you would lie for my benefit," Peter says, and Stiles really wishes he would put his damn clothes on to make this exchange easier. "I can smell your discomfort from here."

He wanders toward Stiles with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and the other reaching out to grip his chin. Stiles looks at him, always with the upper hand, and wonders if there's anything under the murderer shell other than trivial things like eating noodles with a twirling fork and sleeping in the nude even in the winter. Probably things more disturbing than what he sees on the outside.

"You're upset because I make perfect sense," Peter says. "And you don't want me to. You probably don't want to comprehend a single word I'm saying because understanding means you and I are alike."

Alike, as if. Even the idea is laughable. Stiles is young and clumsy and actually has a sense of humor, and no matter how much they have in common, Stiles still hasn't flown into a rage that ended with him slaughtering half the town, and that, he thinks, is more important than all of their similarities. Then again, Peter's looking at him with that shit-eating smirk, the kind that knows more than Stiles and is only willing to share his information for a price, and it makes Stiles wonder if Peter thinks he has Stiles all figured out. That one day he'll go on a cathartic murdering spree of his own like some people do yoga retreats and he and Peter will be kindred spirits Peter's planning on recruiting for his immoral pack of corrupt wrongdoers.

"What are you trying to say?" Stiles asks, quite rigidly.

"That you should loosen up, mostly. Especially your morals."

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, probably that morals are plenty loose already considering he agreed to sleep with Peter, but then Peter's pushing his mug of coffee against Stiles' lips and tipping it up into his mouth. A splash of hot, unsweetened coffee lands on his tongue that Stiles struggles not to dribble down his front in his surprise.

"What was that for?!"

Peter shrugs, unperturbed, even as Stiles sticks his tongue into the air to try and cool it down after the surprise gulp of coffee burns his tastebuds. "Figured you could use a shot of caffeine before leaving. You're are leaving, aren't you?"

And sometimes, Stiles hates that, how Peter can read his every emotion just by off-handedly sniffing the air. Some things he wants to keep to himself, like flagrant discomfort, even if Peter should start learning what conversations make the general public uncomfortable sooner rather than later. He considers lying about it, making up a convenient excuse about summer homework or promising to wash his car today, and decides Peter is not worth disillusioning.

"Yeah, I'm leaving," he announces, toeing his way into his shoes. "Get your keys and drive me home."

Peter sighs. All this work and no play, he's probably thinking. Stiles wants to punch him. Actually, he wants to start driving himself places rather than rely on Peter like he's a twelve-year-old who needs a ride to school, even if his jeep missing from the driveway at six a.m. might be suspicious.

"Fine," he says, yet makes no move to waver from his spot in the kitchen to put on clothes or snatch up his keys. He takes another leisurely sip from his mug of coffee. "Should I come over Monday?"

And he should say no. A man with better self-respect would. Stiles is too busy wondering exactly when Peter saw his father's schedule and memorized that Monday would be his next all-nighter at work.

He doesn't seem to answer fast enough for Peter's liking, Peter downing the rest of his drink with a disgruntled sigh at his lack of cooperation. "Fine. If your window latch is open I'm coming in no matter what."

"Fine," Stiles spits back.

He's thinking he's going to lock the window to teach him a lesson, but maybe he'll keep the porch door open. A little extra effort on Peter's part won't kill him.

* * *

Stiles walks home that day after Peter drops him off a block away and makes a conscious effort not to step on a single bug.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Fun fact: I wrote almost this entire story on my iPhone, tapping the entire thing out in my bed when I couldn't sleep. Here's what I'd like to see in the next iPhone, the ability to turn off the autocorrect that decides to change all filthy words into something safe and holy. Why would anyone ever need to write the word _ducking_?

* * *

Watching Stiles putter about in his kitchen fumbling to grab the coffee filters even though the appropriate time for caffeine has long passed, Peter composes a mental list of all the ways he'd like to corrupt him. It's long, unfiltered, and definitely a little obscene.

Actually, what's obscene is Stiles in nothing but navy blue boxers slung just low enough on his hips that Peter can zero in on the dark possessive marks he left on his hips last night. Possibly this morning. He's never one to date stamp his proudest bruises, just admire them from afar as they morph into muted greens and purples and the fingernail crescent fades.

"I have to say," Peter speaks up from the doorway. "Not turning you was one of the best decisions I ever made."

"Why's that?" Stiles' voice is distracted as he rifles through Peter's cabinets for the coffee grounds. Hopeless how he only ever has his full attention when Peter's sliding his dick into his ass.

"If I had," Peter says, coming closer, "you wouldn't have all of these delectable bruises." He presses his thumb into a deep red mark, blood suckled to the surface, in the dip of Stiles' back. He jumps at the sensation and Peter rakes his nails over the sensitive skin there.

"Fuck," Stiles groans as Peter's hands travel up his neck and his mouth fastens over the fingerprints he left over Stiles' pulse point last night. He feels Stiles' heartbeat on his tongue, rapid as ever, and he registers the sound of the _thunk_ from Stiles dropping the mugs. It's not like either of them needs coffee at seven p.m. anyway. Especially Stiles, who always acts like he's overdosed on caffeine if his perpetually jiggling foot is any indication. "Again? Really? After that thing with the peanut butter?"

Peter nods against his neck, grabbing him by the hips to swivel him around and press him up against the cabinets. Stiles folds into him instantly, fingers winding into his hair and legs hitching over his waist, responsive to even the unspoken commands, and Peter licks his way into Stiles' mouth slowly, torturously. He still tastes of peanut butter, a pleasantly creamy reminder of an hour ago.

When he pulls away, Stiles' breathing is heavy, and Peter flicks his gaze downward to take in his bare chest and pale knees. He thinks of all the places he wants to leave marks, all the places he _will_ leave marks, and digs his knuckles in hard enough to leave bruises that can't be forgotten. Stiles' breath hitches and Peter slides his grip upward to Stiles' ribcage so he can feel his lungs work under his hands.

"Peter," Stiles murmurs, and when he scoots forward on the counter Peter feels the insistent warmth of his hardness press into his thigh. He sounds like he's begging while purposefully avoiding the word _please_.

He's so infuriating, Peter thinks, because he doesn't even realize just how wild he makes Peter. Just with the subtle way his eyelids lower when he's aroused, or the way his slender hands wrap around Peter's biceps to keep himself afloat. It should probably be worrying, how Peter finds him irresistible no matter if he's clothed, naked, chattering, sleeping, or giving Peter age lines by bickering with him. Wanting something this much is never good.

"Get on the bed," Peter says, voice low, and he slides his hands free from Stiles' torso.

Stiles doesn't gripe about being the grunt of Peter's orders, instead leaning forward to kiss him again once more, headier this time, before breaking free and sliding to his feet. The heat of Stiles' ankles hooked around his back slips away, but Peter stays close behind him as he scrambles over to the bed and lays himself against the pillows. Peter lingers by the foot of the bed, eyes roving up his freckled skin and anxious hands, and wonders where to begin.

"What are you waiting for?" Stiles asks, impatience obvious in his voice.

"I want to look at you," Peter tells him, and drinks in the sight.

Stiles arches upward, just enough to chase Peter's mouth with a nearly inaudible whine for more, and Peter is just terrible at denying pretty boys with pink lips. He can gladly admit that self-control is not his best trait as he leans down and presses their lips together hard, passionately, forcefully enough to leave bruises that spell out Peter's name without using the alphabet.

He pulls back from the kiss with his tongue leaving licks behind on Stiles' wet lower lip, skirting down to pay attention to his jaw. Stiles shivers at the touches of his teeth on his chin, hands flexing on Peter's shoulders, almost like he's torn between resigning himself to a closet of turtlenecks or pushing Peter's attention further downward where it's easily hidden. Peter doesn't give him much choice as he bites down on his neck and feels the muscle pinned between his teeth swallow.

"You, Stiles," Peter murmurs reverently, breath warm on Stiles' neck as he presses his tongue flat against Stiles' pulse point and grinds his hips downward, "were built for corrupting." He sits up, Stiles' mouth already swollen pink, and touches his thumb to the corner of his lips. "You're so _pretty_ I can't help but want to mess you up."

Stiles' eyes flash, whether it be in fear or thrill, Peter doesn't care. Hell, combine the two, keep it exciting, for all he minds. He leans back in to bite on Stiles' shoulder, a sharp nip that leaves a drop of blood oozing from near his collarbones. Stiles jerks.

"_Hey_," he yelps, but his voice still sounds breathy, fogged over with arousal. "You're such a freak."

Peter grins because he's absolutely fine with that. Stiles could call him Princess Bubblecakes right now if he so wishes, it won't deter him from his goal. He slithers down Stiles' torso, hands ghosting down his sides, and settles on guiding Stiles' knees apart to alternate between sucking and biting spots into the inside of his thigh. A private spot, someplace only for his eyes, and Stiles willingly spreads his thighs to accommodate him.

"You should always wear this little," Peter advises, pulling down his underwear with one smooth tug. Stiles laughs and twines his fingers into Peter's hair, thoroughly mussed after a day of tugging and grabbing in the throes of passion.

"Even in public?" Stiles giggles. Peter bites down on his hip at the sound, and Stiles only laughs louder. "Could your jealousy handle it?"

"It's not jealousy," Peter corrects, Stiles instantly unconvinced. "It's _possessiveness_." He digs his thumb into the purpled mark on Stiles' hipbone, drinking in his resulting gasp. "This means you're mine."

"Is that a werewolf thing or a horribly outdated eighteenth century husband thing?" Stiles asks. This is too much talking during sex, too many words leaving his mouth that aren't breathless pants for more. Peter trails his teeth down his leg to silence him. It works.

"I'm going to try something new," Peter murmurs, fingers a firm presence on his hipbones to keep him in place while his mouth stays latched onto his leg.

Stiles' eyes snap open, critically narrowed. "No wolfing out during sex."

"Nice idea, but no," he runs his hands over Stiles' thighs, sliding under them to squeeze his ass, feeling the resulting tremor that tickles through Stiles' body vibrate on his lips. "Turn over."

Stiles does so without questions, and that's enough to send a fresh shot of blood down south to Peter's cock. And then there's his bare ass on display for Peter's eyes and for his hands to touch, just another part of him that is unfairly obscene. He settles between the V of Stiles' legs, mouth still insistent on the inside of his thigh, trailing slowly upwards to his hole.

"I just love it when boys do my bidding," Peter murmurs, and Stiles wriggles to show the snort the pillow muffles. He bites Stiles in the thigh to keep him still. "Especially the handsome ones."

"Would you get to it?" Stiles barks out over his shoulder. Peter laughs, because apparently handsome comes side-by-side with irrevocably pushy.

"I want you to come with your cock untouched," Peter says, circling patterns on Stiles' ass cheek, He leans in to exhale a warm breath there, right by his entrance. Peter licks his lips as the muscle flutters. "Can you do that?"

"Can I—fuck, yeah, let's do it," Stiles says in one awed breath.

Peter chuckles, because he's so _eager_, so easy to rile up. He leans in and drags his teeth up Stiles' thigh and breathes in. He smells of arousal and eagerness and _Peter_, like he's spent hours in his scent, his sweat, being marked as claimed territory, and Peter doesn't remember the last time such an exhilarating scent filled his nose. _Mine_, he thinks, quite possessively, and bites down hard enough to draw blood on the soft skin of his ass.

"Hey," Stiles yowls, looking sharply over his shoulder. "I'm not edible, Mr. Big Bad Wolf."

"You smell like me," Peter says on his skin as if that explains it, his voice dragged down low by reverence, and he revels in the way Stiles shudders under him. "Like you're mine."

Stiles' eyes fog over, almost like Peter's rough words are turning him on, so Peter indulges in him by leaning in and flattening his tongue over his hole.

Stiles' response is instant. His back arches and his entire body goes rigid, stock still with pleasure, except for his rattling lungs, and this is really half the fun. Watching Stiles writhe and try to control himself, watching him clamp his teeth down on a pillow and buck his ass up into the air wordlessly for more, it sends Peter reeling. It makes him want to glue Stiles to the bed.

He spreads him apart with his thumbs, pulling back to admire Stiles' hole, pink and glistening from where Peter's flicked his tongue out over it. He rubs his thumb over it, paying close attention to the tremor that shakes Stiles a moment later, and then he breaches his entrance with his tongue and licks inward. Stiles is helplessly gone in an instant. Peter would grin if his mouth wasn't occupied.

He focuses his hearing and there's Stiles, already panting hard as Peter traces his rim with the tip of his tongue, hungry to hear him moan for more, plead for Peter to continue, and Stiles never disappoints. He's vocal and opinionated, clothes on or off, and the words that fall from his mouth when he's stretched open and at Peter's mercy as delectable. _Right there_, he gasps out, and then _fuck, keep going_. Peter teases him still, dragging his tongue down before licking over his furled hole once more. And again, just to hear him whimper.

"Peter," Stiles groans, and the way his tongue wraps around his name sounds like last words. "Oh god, _yes_."

Oh, and he just moans so _nicely_, Peter's head supplies as he slides his tongue back in. He's a plethora of sounds and squirms and reactions that Peter drinks up. He might have to handcuff Stiles to the bed just to always keep that scent around, that invigorating smell of submission and possession.

He slips a finger in next to his tongue next, just a gentle push helped along with the slickness of his tongue. Stiles groans, swallowing it back a moment later, and Peter has to slap him on the ass just to remind him that his father isn't downstairs and that Peter's apartment is one hundred percent equipped to handle his noises, however loud he might get. Peter wants to hear him get loud.

"Let me hear you, Stiles," Peter murmurs, pulling back from his hole and sliding his finger in. "Look at me."

Stiles obeys, craning his neck over his shoulder, and when his eyes land on Peter's slick lips, shiny from eating Stiles out, his head falls back with a needy moan. Peter slips his finger in further and smacks his hand down on his ass just once more for reactions, and Stiles responds with another groan, this one broken at the ends.

"More," Stiles croaks, his voice more frayed by the second. "I can handle it. _C'mon_."

"Is that so?" Peter asks, cocking an eyebrow, and Stiles' response is nothing but a heady whine and a jerk of his hips against the sheets, as if looking for friction. Punishable behavior, Peter thinks, and he pushes in a second finger, this one aimed directly for his prostate.

Stiles makes quite the spectacle, Peter thinks, the kind that awakens the animal inside him that's completely buried from the world. He's always needy for more, always ready to beg and demand, even when the back of his neck shines with sweat. It drives Peter crazy, crazy because Stiles doesn't even know how wild he makes him, and he leans in to suck over a reddened bite mark on the low of Stiles' back just so he knows, just so he remembers exactly who's behind him pulling him closer to the edge.

He teases his fingers back out, watching the way Stiles' hole swallows them back as he pushes in again, listening to the way Stiles' breath matches the rhythm of his thrusts. His ass looks like sinful art like this, the kind too provocative to end up in museums, and Peter bites down on his lip as he watches his fingers slip in and out of Stiles' hole. He adds another, making it three, and when he pushes in and pulls out, he gives Stiles a second to catch his breath.

"Fuck, Peter," are Stiles' first words, and he pushes his ass up into the air. Peter rewards his eagerness with another slow lick over his stretched hole. "God, don't stop."

"As you wish," Peter murmurs, and then slides his fingers back in. He rubs them relentlessly against his prostate this time, just hard enough to make Stiles jerk and whimper. They turn from whimpers to gasps to moans, and then he's clutching the pillow and barely making out words. He's close, Peter can tell, so he pulls his fingers back out and lets Stiles groan at the loss.

"I was gonna come," Stiles says over his shoulder. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth red from biting down on his lip, and Peter grins.

"Oh?" he murmurs, running his hands over Stiles' ass. It's sensitive, clearly, and Stiles jerks into the touch again. "Ask me nicely to let you."

If his cock wasn't leaking and his eyes weren't fogged over with arousal, Stiles would hit him right over the head, Peter knows this. There's something extremely magical about sex that brings out Stiles' usually dormant submissive side, pushing aside the part of him that likes to banter and fight for the top. Peter wonders how many other sides of him there are.

"Jesus," Stiles groans, and then he slides to his knees to give Peter a better view of his ass. "Make me come. Fuck, _please_."

And now that, Peter can't deny. Stiles' ass, poised in the air and waiting for attention after he begged so prettily, is a prospect too tempting to keep away from, even for the pleasure of watching Stiles squirm for more. He's not exactly a master when it comes to reeling in his self-control.

He slides his fingers back in, this time keeping the pace fast and hard, eyes glued to the way Stiles presses his cheek to the pillow and tries to breathe. Peter knows exactly when Stiles is about to come. He's catalogued all of the signs, the way his mouth falls open and his chest heaves faster than before, the way his thighs shake and his fingers turn white-knuckled around what he's grasping. It's the kind of thing Peter wants to record just so he can watch it again, just so his brain won't forget, and it's something of a shame that Stiles will never see just how much of a writing mess he becomes when he's close.

This time he lets him come, targeting his prostate with his fingertips and biting down on his thigh until he's coming, spilling over Peter's sheets with sounds of unconstrained pleasure. He moans and doesn't bother stifling the sound in the sheets, something Peter rewards him for with a few gentle nips on his ass.

"Came without touching," Peter murmurs, fascinated, as he pulls his fingers out and Stiles flops over onto his backside. He runs his hand down Stiles' flushed chest.

"God, that was hot," Stiles says to the ceiling at large, and he sounds wrecked and breathless as he tries to come back down to earth, so Peter is quite surprised when he sits up and crawls into Peter's lap, pressing their mouths together. Stiles is full of surprises.

"You just came," Peter mumbles on his lips. "Can you really—"

Stiles doesn't let him answer, pulling him closer by his shoulders and kissing him once more. It's more aggressive this time, Stiles licking into his mouth and grazing his teeth over Peter's bottom lip—that's a move Peter taught him, for sure—before he pulls back once more to breathe. Apparently Peter is underestimating the power of a teenager's reboot time.

"You stretched me open," he says matter-of-factly, the headiness still present in his eyes even post-orgasm. He rocks against Peter's hard cock, neglected up till now. "You're going to take advantage of that."

That's something Peter can't deny either. A naked boy point-black telling Peter to fuck him, that's like he just lucked out at a slots machine, a roulette table, and blackjack all in one night. He wonders if these urges are the kind of thing that Stiles has always had inside him, waiting to be provoked, or if Peter's taught him well and conditioned him into the perfect sexual companion.

"Well," he says with a sigh, smirking, and rubs his thumb over Stiles' lower lip. "All right."

Stiles kisses him again, pressing their bodies flush together until Peter can feel his chest, slightly sweaty and very warm, press against him. Peter pulls away from his mouth to dedicate more time to his neck, his chest, his unbitten shoulders, and gets to work tonguing his collarbone.

Stiles is frantic now, lower lip raw and red from biting down on it and hands eager to please, his chest flushed and his hair tousled. Peter yanks him closer by the hair, unable to resist when he looks so pleasantly _debauched_—by Peter's hands, no less—and Stiles doesn't object to a hard, insistent kiss when Peter tugs him forward. His tongue slips into Stiles' mouth, letting him snag a taste of himself, and Stiles gets impatient after ten seconds of wet kisses, hands scrambling on Peter's thigh.

"C'mon," he whines. "Where the fuck is the lube in this fine establishment?"

Peter cocks his head to the nightstand, watching Stiles scramble across the bed to find it. His ass bounces most pleasantly along the way, blissfully naked for Peter's viewing pleasure, and he snakes an arm around his torso to pull Stiles onto his hips and rut his cock against Stiles' backside the second he seizes the tube of lube from the drawer.

"Are you going to ride me?" Peter purrs in his ear, rolling his erection against the curve of Stiles' ass and nudging his wrist against Stiles' already hardening cock. This is why the young, hyperactive boys are the best.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles groans, and he seems to be momentarily distracted by the hand stroking his cock before he swats it away and turns around, hands firm on Peter's shoulders. He faces him, eyes determined like he wants his shot of being in charge, and Peter is willing to amuse him. "Like this."

He kneels over Peter's lap, eyes straight on Peter's, and Peter nods as silent approval. It's not every day he has a lapful of naked, horny boy, and Stiles seems more determined than most to prove his sexual prowess. He slides his hands over Stiles' hips, thumbs slotting over his hipbones and paying his full attention to how Stiles squeezes lube into his hand and proceeds to finger himself, slicking his entrance. It's riveting, really, how fervent Stiles is, even as he fucks himself on his fingers and tips his head forward with that pull of pleasure. Peter grabs his chin, leaning in to drag his lower lip into his mouth with his teeth, and it seems to break the last of Stiles' patience, his fingers slipping free with a small _oh_ that falls directly into Peter's mouth.

He slicks Peter up next, a slow, fidgeting hand smearing lube over his cock, and Stiles seems to enjoy it as much as Peter, eyes glued to Peter's cock and the weight of it in his hands. He might be hopelessly obsessed with women, Peter thinks, but he's still a boy meant to take dick. Doesn't matter where, he's perfect for it—the bow of his pink lips, the stretch of his hole, the grip of his slender fingers. He's meant to be pleasured and punished by a man.

"Don't keep me waiting, Stiles," Peter growls, growing just as impatient, and Stiles seems to share his sentiments. He nods frantically and suddenly he's aligning himself with Peter's cock and sinking down, probably too fast and too hard, but it makes Peter's carefully crafted reserve slip just that much further.

Stiles grunts, almost like he's stuck between riding him senseless and being annoyed with Peter's pushiness, and then he's all the way down, sitting on Peter's cock and letting out a shaky breath that lands on Peter's shoulder. They haven't fucked like this before, with Stiles sweaty in his lap as he rocks up and down on his hips, nearly eye-to-eye, and it feels oddly personal in the way that Peter pounding into Stiles while he's on all fours isn't.

Maybe Stiles feels it too, because he doesn't meet Peter's eyes, instead pulling himself up and back down with a rushing exhale, and then he slides his chin on Peter's shoulder, almost as if to hide his face, to hide the emotion raw and open there. Peter thrusts upward just enough to slide that much deeper and Stiles moans, low and dirty and right by his ear, and Peter wants to _see_, wants to memorize the way his eyes flutter closed and his mouth falls open.

And Stiles is so tight around him, warm and slick and inviting in a way that makes Peter wants to set up camp on his body for years. This is his, all his, all waiting to be discovered like uncharted land, and he thrusts his hips up to emphasize that point, Stiles' answering groan sounding a lot like _yes, yours_. Peter brings his teeth into the equation, his vision tinged with red as he bites down on Stiles' bare shoulder, sucking over the marks he leaves and making them that much deeper, redder, harder to remove, scraping his growing fangs above the collarbone where shirts won't cover.

"Fuck," Stiles is mumbling, over and over, his hips stuttering where they're sliding up and down, up and down on Peter's cock. He'll complain later, rub at the bruises in the mirror as if trying to smear them away, but Peter knows he enjoys it—the bite, the pain, the way his blood rushes to the surface and makes his pleasure that much sharper. Peter grins because this is what he can do, this is what no one else would have ever taught Stiles, how good pain can be and how primordially hot it is to leave marks where no one can see.

His fingers slide down to grip Stiles' ass, reveling in the flex of his muscles as he rolls down on Peter's dick. Every bounce of his hips results in a hiss and a moan right by Peter's ear, magnified with Stiles' heartbeat, rapid and unrelenting like gunfire. The drag of Stiles' ass around his length is too much, enough to pull the air from Peter's lungs and pull the wolf to the surface, and Peter digs his claws into Stiles' ass to keep himself at bay.

The air is hot, too warm, and Stiles' legs are slick with sweat as he grinds against Peter, his cock nudging Peter's stomach. He whines and Peter snakes a hand between them to pump his neglected erection, his palm rough on Stiles' length as he keeps up the pace of Stiles' hips bouncing back and forth. It's still too slow, too careful, and with a growl Peter has Stiles' hip in his free hand and is yanking him down onto his cock, harder than before, and Stiles seems to get the hint.

"C'mon," Peter growls right in his ear. "Want to see you move." And then, when Stiles keens, he pushes his cock upwards once more, driving right into Stiles. "You can do better than that."

"_Fucker_."

It does the trick, it always does, and Stiles steadies himself on Peter's shoulders and speeds up, riding Peter in earnest, and this is the point where Peter wants to see exactly what he looks like. He pulls Stiles' hair until his head jerks back, eyes riveted to the way Stiles' eyelids are at half-mast and his lips are parted and his eyes are fogged over with drunken pleasure, and Peter _did that_. Peter's responsible for this, and he roughly grabs Stiles by the cheek to push their mouths together.

"Amazing," he says, right into his mouth, and Stiles' hips stutter where they're rocking onto him, finesse gone and replaced with a frantic push and pull of their bodies.

"What?" Stiles asks, out of breath and panting and _delicious._ Peter's fingers dig into his cheek, his mouth red as he speaks. "_What_?"

"You," Peter says, licking over his bottom lip. Stiles slams back down at that, pulling something feral out of Peter's chest. "Look at you."

"Kinda busy," Stiles says in return, voice hoarse at best, and then Peter's twisting his wrist on the upstroke on Stiles' cock and Stiles is coming, a broken groan landing in the air as his thighs shake and his forehead lands on Peter's cheek, right where the stubble catches onto him.

Peter pumps into him still, jerking his hips up and down while Stiles tries to catch his breath between gasps on his shoulder, close enough to come in Stiles, to watch his come trickle out his hole when he pulls out, and then Stiles is pressing his mouth to his ear to whisper something.

"Peter," Stiles murmurs, his hands squeezing Peter's arms to grab his attention. "Use my mouth."

He pulls his forehead from Peter's chin, licking over his lips and nodding to give him the green light. God, Peter thinks, this one's a keeper, and he rubs his thumb over Stiles' plump lower lip until he climbs off his lap, Peter's cock slipping free from his ass. It makes Stiles whimper almost like he misses the fullness, but then he's scrambling to his knees and opening his mouth for Peter, and it's exactly the kind of image Peter wants to take photographs of to replay over and over.

"Perfect," Peter murmurs. For everyone's talk about how terrible he is, apparently the heavens still think he deserves a naked boy on his knees for him. He gets to his feet, slipping from the bed to align his cock with Stiles' mouth, rubbing the tip over his lower lip and watching Stiles' tongue dart out to taste the precome. "Your mouth waiting for my cock. Do you want it?"

Stiles' eyes glaze over, and it reminds Peter exactly how much Stiles loves sucking dick. For a self-proclaimed straight boy, he's an expert at giving head, at hollowing his cheeks and using his to tongue and letting a dick fuck his throat. He's always clamoring to have Peter in his mouth, an oral fixation Peter is all too obliged to help him fulfill.

Stiles nods, just a tiny jerk of his head as he spreads his lips and lets Peter mark his mouth.

"Tell me," Peter growls. "Tell me what you want."

"Your cock," Stiles says, and his cheeks still flush. He's not nearly the same stuttering virgin he was when Peter had first spread him out on his mattress, but his face still goes pink whenever Peter pulls filth from his mouth.

"Good boy," Peter murmurs, and then he's slipping his length into Stiles mouth and watching him work around it, watching his tongue wrap around his erection and his cheeks hollow around him. His pink tongue flicks out over and over, curling around the tip to taste him, running over the underside of his cock. Peter's control is practically nonexistent by now as he feeds his cock into Stiles' mouth, fingers gripping his hair to pull him onto his dick.

He comes down Stiles' throat, and Stiles, dear lord, doesn't even pull back. It's not even slightly reminiscent of how he began sucking Peter off, mouth hesitant and tongue tentative to taste, how Peter had to coax him to put his mouth to good use. But Stiles is a natural, easy to persuade and fast to learn, and he keeps his mouth on Peter's cock until he's sated, pulling back when Peter's grip on his hair lessens. Peter leans down to kiss him on the neck, just once or twice next to his rapid pulse, and Stiles leans against the solidness of his shoulder.

"I'm all sweaty," Stiles says, still lost of breath, and Peter pets the hair away from his damp forehead, watching his eyes shut at the ministrations.

"Sign of a good time," Peter says with a chuckle, and Stiles shrugs in agreement. He looks worn and swollen all over, lips bruised pink and eyes at half-mast. Peter never wants to stop corrupting him, counting the ways he can make him come, watching his face as he does. His eyes flick over to the kitchen, coffee filters still sitting unattended to next to the mugs. "Still want that coffee?"

"Tomorrow," Stiles mumbles, and then he's dragging Peter down on the mattress, away from the wet spot.

He thinks about making a joke about sleepovers, about how at this point Stiles should be braiding his hair while they cry over chick flicks, but then Stiles is draping himself over Peter's chest and he thinks _tomorrow_. There's always time to make jokes tomorrow.

* * *

Peter wakes up to a mouth drooling on his shoulder and an errant leg slung over his thigh just as the sunrise is tickling the dark gray out of the clouds. He rolls over, receiving several snoring grunts of protest in his ear at the jostling, and surveys Stiles' lax face in the dark. There could be better ways to wake up, like with Stiles' mouth coaxing him awake by dragging his tongue up his cock, but then again, there have been worse as well.

His eyes zero in on a dark bruise, muted in the quiet light of a budding morning, dotting the line of Stiles' jaw. If he leans in, he can see the hint of teeth marks, and this is exactly what Stiles' pale skin and responsive flesh was built for. Endless marking.

Peter shifts, dragging his foot up Stiles' calf under the sheets just to watch his eyebrows furrow discontentedly in his sleep. He reaches out to run a hand over Stiles' chin right where the bruises are smattered, too high for even the bulkiest of scarves to hide, and feels a grin tug at the corner of his lips.

_This,_ he thinks absently as he trails a single fingertip up to Stiles' ear, skipping over the barely there traces of stubble present on his jaw, _this I could get used to._

Well. That's interesting in a never-going-to-happen sort of way.

It makes him straighten up, actually, back tense and limbs rid of their early morning ease. That sounded like a human thought, the kind of ruminations that people who labor under myths like "there is good in others" are gleefully privy to. Peter knows better.

And it's a little baffling to hear his own brain come up with such a thought, because it's centered around _Stiles_. Someone who isn't himself. Some kid, some powerless teenage boy whose hands never lay still and mouth gets him in trouble. It's so ridiculous Peter considers laughing, which would be easier if the smile hadn't been wiped off his face.

He thinks about something else, something more appealing than the moles that chase Stiles' spine. Like fresh toast or a strenuous work out or murdering a passerby in good fun.

It sounds like a solid plan doing all three in order, starting with the nourishing breakfast, up until Stiles throws a curveball into his plans by waking up. His entire body squirms and wiggles like it's making up for all that tranquility his limbs were forced into during sleep, and then he's blinking his eyes open, dark brown and sleepy and framed with thick lashes. He catches Peter's eyes on him and freezes, all soft morning stretching gone.

"Is it weird that I'm used to waking up to you staring at me like Edward Cullen?" Stiles murmurs, voice rough with sleep. Or rough like he'd just finished blowing Peter deep in his throat. Peter prefers the latter. "You and I may need to discuss boundaries."

"Boundaries?" Peter repeats. He slides a hand around Stiles' upper thigh, his knuckles nudging a part of his body much more awake than his brain is so far. "I lick your asshole until you're begging for me to fuck you, but this is crossing a line?"

"Seven in the morning and you're already talking asshole?" Stiles sputters with one glance at the clock on the bedside table. There's a blush creeping up his cheeks that Peter finds oddly endearing. "That's different."

"It isn't," Peter dismisses once and for all. "We have no boundaries."

He looks at him and he looks so comfortable, wrapped up in Peter's blankets and sleepy against a wrinkled pillow, almost like he came furnished with the apartment. Like he fits there, like somebody cut out the pieces missing in Peter's apartment and pushed them in. He had no idea company was one of the things it was missing. He was sure it was only a blender.

"Are you like that with everyone?" Stiles asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Never mind. You really think you and I have no boundaries?"

Physical boundaries, no. Emotional boundaries—that's another story. There are corners of his mind only meant for himself to see, and that's just for the safety of others. Not that he's a large fan of show and tell and sharing is caring and all other ludicrous ideas shoved into children's heads, so there's that as well. He looks at Stiles, naked in his birthday suit under the light summer sheets, and knows that he has the same mental walls up. Peter likes relationships when they include walls rather than hand holding and long campfire stories about how rough the past was.

"Essentially not," Peter says. "Except for the few departments where I prefer the boundaries."

"Let me guess," Stiles mutters dryly. "Anything involving actual emotion?"

Right on the nose. Peter grins at Stiles, a flash of his bright teeth his gold star for guessing correctly. "Yes. How did you know?"

"Because you're a soulless monster," Stiles says right away, burrowing further into the bed. He furrows his eyebrows together, fixing Peter with a displeased glance. "You don't care about anything other than my penis, do you?"

It's not exactly true. There's also his mouth and the way he moans and the scent he leaves behind on Peter's sheets, or the stupid jokes that keep Peter somewhat young and the sex that keeps him even younger.

"Why?" is what Peter ends up saying, because he was not hired for compliment patrol. Stiles shrugs instantly.

"I don't know," Stiles mumbles, and he looks exhausted again. A good few orgasms will do that to a man, even after a night's rest, and Peter supposes he could let Stiles sleep in a few more hours while he scrounges up breakfast. "I'm just trying to figure you out."

"You already have," Peter says. Stiles frowns at him as Peter's hands sweep demonstratively down his own naked torso. "Have you considered that this is all there is?"

"Is there?" Stiles asks, momentarily baffled. Peter thinks about it, and yes, that's all there is.

"What you see," Peter explains, leaning to murmur the words atop Stiles' unresponsive lips, "is what you get with me."

"So, crazy eyes and a tendency for murder?"

"That, and dashingly good looks," Peter adds on, because honestly, how could that bit be pushed to the wayside? It's an important part to his spiel. Nobody trusts a face that isn't pretty and everyone loves one that is, even if they can see the blood surrounding their handsome smiles and the knives hidden behind their backs.

Stiles snorts, not amused with Peter's nutshell of himself. "Okay, fine," he concedes. "Then maybe I wish you weren't so easy to figure out. That you were a bit complex."

The words are ambiguous, but Peter knows what they mean nonetheless. Loosely translated it can be understood _I wish you had reasons for being so evil,_ or _if only you weren't so black and white._. Peter is perpetually gray, and better yet, he likes it there where he has no tragic villain origin story and no one ever asks for explanations when he does something morally wrong like intentionally trip a small child or commit a mass murder.

"You know, Stiles," Peter says nonchalantly, crossing his feet at the ankles. "Despite what young romance novels might tell you, you really don't have to like me to sleep with me."

That seems to hit a nerve with Stiles, like even entertaining the idea of finding admirable qualities in Peter would drag down his reputation to depths only sewage could rival. He pulls away from Peter, a change from comfortably sharing space to defensively finding distance tangible in the air as Stiles frowns at him.

"I'm not trying to like you," Stiles snaps, sitting up from Peter's chest. "Maybe I'm just trying to figure out why you're such a big asshole."

"It's a gift," Peter says, giving Stiles a smile that's all teeth.

Something in the conversation feels stiff, emanating mostly from Stiles and his judgmental eyebrows. He's probably questioning every decision he ever made, Peter thinks idly, watching the crease between his eyes deepen, specifically the one where he agreed to let Peter fuck him. He agreed because he's also a bad person, Peter is sure of that much. Bad people are magnetized together by each other's refreshing lack of morality. Stiles' badness just needs a little coaxing to the surface.

Peter rubs his thumb over where Stiles' eyebrows are furrowed together. "Too pretty for wrinkles," he says, and Stiles' frown only sets in harder. Peter mirrors it. "For heaven's sake."

He rolls his eyes and pulls Stiles in, swallowing his complaints with his tongue. Stiles fights it valiantly for a solid six seconds before he resigns himself to the kiss, angling their mouths together just right. Then he seems to remember that he's cross with Peter's horrible self—or perhaps himself for being attracted to such a horrible self—and pulls away, rubbing at his jaw.

"And would you shave already?" Stiles grumbles, wriggling like a displaced worm under the sheets. "Every time we make out it feels like I'm getting rug burn."

And it's truly unfortunate for Peter, because the more he bickers and stands up for himself, the more Peter finds himself wanting to pull him down to the mattress and keep them there for years just to see how he'll grow up, how he'll change, how he'll still beg for Peter after months have passed.

He looks at Stiles, wrestling with the sheets knotted around his ankles, and knows that keeping Stiles for years is not an option, not for either of them. Peter doesn't keep people around for that long. It's a miracle if he still wants them to stay for breakfast. Stiles has slept here three nights in a row, and by all means that should be pushing it. The fact that Peter doesn't mind irks him like cockroaches under his skin.

He slips from the bed, not bothering to do so carefully and nearly whipping the sheets tangled around his and Stiles' unit of limbs off the mattress like a tablecloth, and hears Stiles' usual grunt of disapproval. Peter doesn't drape the linen over his shoulder because he's not anybody's fucking babysitter.

Well, Peter thinks, taking another look at Stiles' lithe eighteen year old frame. Maybe he is.

Right. Toast.

* * *

It's almost adorable how passive-aggressively disapproving Derek is, even all the way across the loft. Every time Peter's hand casually rests on Stiles' ass, it results in a heavy huff audible to even human ears that probably creates wind on other planets. It could also be because Peter isn't helping with the moving in the least, but in his defense, he never agreed to helping. He just showed up.

Isaac is lugging out boxes of worn hoodies alongside Scott, Derek watching it all like he's either mourning the baby bird leaving the proverbial nest and going to college or he's watching the sorting of items carefully so none of his easily replaceable crap gets mixed in with Isaac's replaceable crap. Peter is staying a generous distance away, quite amused, and then Stiles wanders over to him and hooks his chin over his shoulder, cheeky and just as lazy as Peter if his lack of helpfulness is any indication.

"Derek doesn't approve of us," Stiles whispers conspiratorially in Peter's ear. There it comes, Derek's glare right on cue, so Peter slings his arm over Stiles' shoulder and drags him that much closer.

"Whatever will we do," Peter drawls. He watches as Scott and Isaac pull a mattress up from the floor together. "You've been helpful today, haven't you?"

"Hey, I'm a human," Stiles says defensively. His own arm crawls around Peter's waist, his hand comfortable on his shirt. It feels a little too old-couple-walking-down-the-beach-together for Peter, but he supposes anything that makes Derek's forehead vein tick so beautifully is worth it. "Why am I the one expected to do all the heavy lifting?" He furrows his eyebrows. "Why aren't you helping?"

"I'm just here for the eye candy," Peter says idly, and across the room, blatantly listening in, Derek rolls his eyes. He turns to Stiles. "How did you figure out Derek won't give us his blessing?"

"He told me," Stiles says with a shrug. "He said I should be careful. My heart is fragile, love is a battlefield, yada yada." He looks over at where Derek's eyes have zeroed in on them and cringes. "He's listening, isn't he?"

Peter nods, quite amused. Life just isn't as entertaining when someone isn't judging him, a role Derek is always happy to fulfill. Peter is happy to proudly wear his disapproval like royal jewels and a golden crown, so he catches Derek's eye as he deliberately leans in to bite down on Stiles' ear.

"We should get out of here," he murmurs, "so I can tease your ass with my tongue and slick you up for my cock."

Stiles isn't fooled, roughly disentangling himself from Peter's arm. "Eww!" he yowls. "You know he can hear us, you creepy bastard!"

"He's not the only one," Isaac pipes up from where he and Scott are taping up boxes, sounding quite disturbed. The more people's nightmares Peter fuels, the better.

Derek comes up to him twelve minutes later, cornering him none too discreetly by the stairs in the corner while Stiles adds unnecessary amounts of tape to Isaac's sad heap of boxed belongings.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he asks Peter, voice dangerously low. He looks horribly displeased, like listening in to Peter murmuring filth into Stiles' ear all afternoon was the worst form of modern day torture, and Peter feels like his mission of the day has been accomplished.

"Is this the part where you threaten me to keep Stiles safe or else?" Peter asks him, eyebrow raised. "Big brother routine on your uncle?"

Derek's lips thin out into an annoyed white line, like Peter's missing the point. He steps closer, as if daring Peter to step back. Peter doesn't. That particular intimidation tactic is one that runs in the family. "It's Stiles," Derek says, enunciating like he's waiting for comprehension to sink into Peter's brain and for him to swear off underage boys forever and ever. "His father's the sheriff. His best friend is _Scott_."

And that makes Peter freeze, because it doesn't sound like a threat. It sounds like a warning. He raises an eyebrow. "Are you showing concern for me?" He resists the urge to chuckle. "Stiles is a willing participant."

"I know," Derek says, and he looks constipated again, like memories of Stiles laughing when Peter groped his ass are flitting through his brain again. He seems to shake them aside. "How long are you planning on keeping this up for?"

Peter raises an eyebrow. "Would you like to see a schedule?"

"He's leaving for college," Derek points out, doing a marvelous job of ignoring the other half of the conversation. "You know that, don't you?"

"Really?" Peter drawls. He makes sure the sarcasm is dripping from his words as he grins and adds, "That'll really interfere with my plans to chain him up in my basement."

"Would you," Derek stops himself, and he looks amazed at the pure fact that anybody can be this annoying. He shifts back on forth on his feet, probably trying to distribute the anger as he mentally counts to ten, and fixes Peter with another stern look. "What's going to happen when he leaves?"

"He leaves," Peter says simply. Over Derek's shoulder, Stiles is roughhousing with Scott and Isaac and roaring about an unfair supernatural advantage on their edge. Stiles will be fine, Stiles has friends and hopes for the future and a pretty face that'll get him in just about anywhere. He says as much. "Stiles will be fine."

"And you?"

"Me?" Peter repeats back dubiously. Derek's looking at him like he's waiting for the moment of truth, for the confession of human feelings and a crumbled wall that he tried valiantly to keep up to no avail, that Stiles' love has him barreled over the edge. He frowns. "It's sex. Just sex. I know that your encounters with that always seem to end in death and disaster and horrible betrayal, but," Derek's eyes flash, and Peter realizes he's finally cut himself a shortcut to the end of his conversation, "sometimes it's just sex."

Derek doesn't bother with a response, turning on his heel with one last sharp look in Peter's direction, and Peter watches him stalk away with a stiffness in his shoulders. It's a stiffness Peter is almost always responsible for, like Peter is simply impossible to talk to without needing a back massage, and Peter feels the same way about Derek. Derek has a frustrating need to complicate everything. Peter doesn't.

All of this is simple. It was always meant to be easy, and it is. Stiles will leave, and Peter will be fine. Unbeknownst to Derek, apparently, this is not a romance movie where both of them have fallen tragically in love. Their story would never make it into the movies. It's too r-rated, too simple, too boring for an audience. And that's just how Peter likes it.

* * *

It's past ten p.m. on a Sunday too hot for even the scorching sidewalk to stand when Peter's phone buzzes on the counter, a quiet vibration that catches his attention. It's Stiles, sending _got my first college class schedule today, oh my god_.

Peter looks at it, turns his phone around a few times, and wonders if he's the first person Stiles sent his news to. It's an odd thought, past the mere possession of leaving a few teeth marks on his neck, and it tickles him in all the wrong ways to imagine being the second, or even the third. He likes it best when Stiles' attention stays on him, like when he's sitting atop Peter's hips riding his cock or taking his dick to his throat, and for a white hot second, the idea of sharing him makes Peter want to scratch the familiar itch of murdering a few bodies.

_Congratulations_, Peter texts back, and then after a moment's consideration, _come over tomorrow. Want to fuck you._

Stiles writes back _okay :p_, the smiley face ludicrous and implying familiarity, and it feels like he's staring at something more intimate than what his eyes are allowed to see.

* * *

Stiles shows up at Peter's door the next day with a large duffel bag and an ever larger smile.

The message is not lost on Peter, especially as his eyes fall on the clear outline of condoms bulging out the side of Stiles' bag. He snorts.

"Someone's smug," he drawls, closing the door behind Stiles as Stiles all but struts in.

"Not really, I just know you're easy."

Stiles reels him in by the shirt, dragging him closer to push their mouths together and grope his ass as a cheeky grin splits over Stiles' lips. It feels unsettlingly like a hello kiss, the kind of make out that has no intention of leading to dropped pants and blow jobs, and Peter frowns as Stiles pulls away.

"We aren't an old married couple," he tells Stiles, smirking when an indignant pink spreads over his cheeks. "Hello kisses?"

"Hey, I used tongue," he says defensively.

Peter shrugs, conceding. He leads the way to the kitchen, Stiles following behind him after dumping his bag by the couch. He grabs a wine bottle from the rack by the fridge as Stiles gets situated at the island counter, clearly curious about tonight's choice of beverage.

"Oooh, adult juice," Stiles croons. "Get me a glass."

Peter raises an eyebrow over his shoulder as he pulls a wine glass from a cupboard, hesitating before grabbing another. Stiles nods encouragingly, so Peter humors him and grabs a second glass. He places it in front of him and gives Stilesa solid five seconds to change his mind and ask for juice instead.

"Are you sure I can't get you a Capri-sun?" Peter drawls, holding the bottle a far distance always from Stiles' glass.

"Hey, I'm an adult," Stiles insists. He reaches out to tap Peter on the wrist until he gives in and starts slowly pouring.

"Sure you are," Peter nods. "You can tie your own shoelaces and cut up your own meat and everything."

It makes Stiles frowns, a wave of agitation wafting across the counter. Peter wonders if he's taking it personally, or if perhaps he's completely oblivious to the age gap between them, or if Peter really looks that young and fresh—

"Old enough to have sex with you," Stiles mutters, and then adds for good measure, "and for you not to get arrested for it."

Peter cocks his hip against the counter, pausing the trickle of wine into Stiles' glass to consider him. That's strange. If he wanted to understand the mindset of a teenage boy more thoroughly, he might have a clue as to what Stiles is griping about. He keeps pouring.

"Anyway," Peter says, steering the conversation in a different direction. "When are you moving out into your big boy dorm?"

"August, actually," Stiles says, and he sits up a little straighter. "I'm glad you brought it up."

Peter raises an eyebrow, waiting for elaboration.

"So," Stiles says, eyes low as he circles the rim of his wine glass with his thumb.

"So," Peter returns levelly. He sets down the bottle after filling Stiles' to a comfortable halfway point. Something tells him Stiles is more of a sickeningly sweet daiquiri type of drunkard than he is a fan of acclaimed sophisticated wines, but who is he to judge by appearances. "What is it you're thinking?"

"Well... I'm leaving the nest. Soon," at Peter's rolled eyes, he continues. "College." He grabs his glass and downs a generous gulp, nose wrinkled as if his face has been brutally pinched by a clothing pin after he swallows. Peter was definitely right about his palate not being refined enough for grown up alcohol just yet, but Stiles is much too proud to admit as much as he stonily swallows another gulp. "And I don't know what that means for... our arrangement."

Stiles is looking at him with questions in his eyes with just an edge of hopeful, almost like he hopes Peter will have all the brilliant ideas to fix the distance issue. Peter hadn't even thought that far ahead. When summer began, it was without an end in sight. It was just lazy fucking during sweaty summer nights with warm breezes fluttering through Stiles' window, not conscious thinking about Stiles' plans for the fall.

"I mean, I thought you could come out to my dorm now and again," Stiles offers when Peter stays quiet. "I know it's a bit of a drive, but... you know, there'd be sex."

"Trying to relocate your fuck buddy?" Peter asks him, only mildly amused. He can't identify the other emotion churning in his stomach. "How practical is it to smuggle a man twice your age through a dorm of judgmental peers?"

"Oh. Right, well," Stiles looks miles more uncomfortable than he did a second earlier, unsure in his own skin. He always looks infinitely smaller when the consciousness of his actions takes over him like this, infinitely younger, and Peter leads his wine glass to Stiles' mouth to relax the tension in his shoulders. Stiles swallows dutifully, even if the curl of his lip makes his opinion of the wine obvious, and Peter considers bringing out the chocolate milk. "Guess that might bring up some weird questions."

"Trust me," Peter drawls around the rim of his own glass. "You won't be short on sex in college. Frat boys will be gagging for a mouth like yours."

Stiles blinks at him at that, almost as if someone addressing his appeal still surprises him. Peter snorts, reaching forward to swipe his thumb over a stray residue of wine on his lower lip. Lovely mouth indeed.

"And you'd be fine with that?"

"Stiles," Peter murmurs, unimpressed. His eyes briefly flick down to the deep red bite marks on Stiles' neck and wonder if they contradict his statement. "I thought you'd stopped reading up on werewolf lore on the Internet. This may come as a bit of a shock, but we don't actually mate for life."

For a second there's something unreadable on Stiles' face, something past the usual level of scorn whenever Peter makes a jab at his intelligence or his hair, and before he can inspect it further, it's gone. Stiles' lips quirk up at the left. "Thank god. Because I didn't sign up for sticking with you for the rest of my life."

"Oh?" Peter leans across the counter. "Would that be so bad?"

"Uh huh," Stiles says, the lopsided smirk morphing into a smug grin. "I have other plans."

"What would they be? Becoming an accountant? Two point five kids and a receding hairline?"

"You're right, I should really have loftier goals. Like creeping around my nephew's apartment after finishing a murderous revenge spree while chasing after barely legal high school boys to sex up. Got anybody I can chat with for counseling on making my dream become a reality?"

God, this one's snarky. Peter's really quite proud, if not impressed with himself for knowing how to pick them. He watches Stiles smile, all satisfied sarcasm shining through as he leans closer on the countertop to mirror Peter's stance.

"I wouldn't recommend the first two for someone so," Peter tickles the air as he takes his time sorting through his vocabulary for the right words, "_faint of stomach_." He grins, curling his fingers into the fabric of Stiles' shirt. "The chasing young boys? That's a real perk."

He yanks Stiles in before he can drum up a clever retort, tugging his bottom lip into his mouth with teeth that never fail to effectively silence the talkative. His mouth really is quite something, the kind of asset that could either get him into a lot of trouble or keep him out of it, and Peter can only imagine how much attention he'll receive in college. The thought isn't a pretty one, his hands tightening on Stiles' shirt in his hands, and Peter considers the image. A drunken frat boy with bad decision highlights in his hair pulling Stiles close by the strings of his hoodie, begging him to take his cock between those lips. It makes a volcanic heat flare behind his eyes.

He growls, his hands moving to Stiles' shoulders until his grip is brutal enough to leave bruises in his wake, and deepens their kiss without asking. Stiles all but melts into it, needy whimpers that tells Peter he's already hard from where he's arching across the counter to slant their mouths together, and Peter pulls back leaving the torturous, almost kisses in his wake that he knows drives Stiles to insanity.

"I think," he murmurs, eyes riveted to Stiles' lips, slick from Peter's tongue, and his dilated pupils. He tilts his head a fraction, considering, because there are plenty of ways he could go with his sentence. _I should keep you under lock and key. You don't need a college education anyhow. You're wearing too many fucking clothes. _ "That it's time for the vodka."

* * *

Okay, so the vodka was probably a bad idea.

Stiles is drunk, drunk enough to start climbing the ceiling fan, and it's making Peter feel a bit like the one rogue adult who supplied beer to an underage junior high drinking party. Watching Stiles stumble around his apartment, sloshing alcohol right from the bottle onto the floors and fiddling with whatever his hands can hold onto firmly enough, Peter remembers how young Stiles is.

"We should have a sex playlist," Stiles says as he leans against the stereo Peter has propped up on the wall, punching buttons in his fruitless attempt to bring it to life. "Something to ride the baloney pony with."

Stiles stares right at him, gyrating his hips in clumsy circles, just in case he didn't catch onto his drift. Peter did. He wonders if he should find this endearing or if he should find this hopelessly immature, just another reminder to drop Stiles off at college and find himself a distraction. If it's the former, Peter doesn't have an appropriate course of action to follow.

_Those helpless moans and whimpers you let out are music enough_, Peter's mind helpfully supplies. He smirks, and instead says, "What are you suggesting?"

"Something sexy," Stiles manages to slur out, and then trips over a shoelace as he steps closer. "The saxophone is pretty sexy, right?"

"It's smoking," Peter says, indulging him. He watches Stiles stumble through the apartment—an amazing feat, considering there's hardly any furniture to trip over—and puts his glass of wine down to try and herd Stiles in the direction of the couch to at least cushion any blows he inflicts on himself. "Sit down before you hurt yourself."

"Oh, all right," Stiles acquiesces with a huff, and then deposits himself on the floor.

Peter watches him crumple to the ground and lay himself out on the hard wood, eyes glossy where they're fixated on the ceiling and one hand still firm around the neck of his bottle. He sprawls himself out in a large X, perfectly comfortable on the floor, and Peter watches him stare at the notches in the ceiling like they hold the answers to life's greatest questions.

"I have a couch," Peter decides to offer.

"That's nice," is Stiles' response, and then his eyes focus on Peter like he's just noticed his presence. He pats the floor next to him. "What are you doing all the way up there."

It must be nice to be so drunk one doesn't know up from down, Peter thinks as he begrudgingly sits down on the floor and stretches out his legs. Stiles looks like he's enjoying it, perfectly at peace in his state of inebriated obliviousness, a lazy smile curling his lips. He's really quite pretty, with pale skin begging to be touched and a pink mouth asking to be kissed swollen, and if Stiles tries hard enough to emulate Peter he'll probably be capable of breaking plenty of hearts.

Stiles reaches out and drags himself closer until he's pillowed his head on Peter's lap, nestled in the dip of his legs. Peter listens to his heartbeat, a sluggish crawl of groggy palpitations, and it feels like the steady pull and push of the ocean. It's oddly relaxing, the weight of Stiles' head in his lap and his heartbeat, much slower than the fidgeting of his fingers, soft enough for Peter's to match.

And he doesn't know what he's doing here, with a boy in his lap that stinks of too much liquor with hopes of dragging Peter into his future. He didn't know what to expect of this back in May, back when all of this was nothing but a proposition that Stiles was desperate enough or curious enough to agree to, and this, Stiles draped over him like he couldn't be more comfortable, this really throws a wrench in his plans. Probably because this feels nice. Peter doesn't do _nice_. He doesn't even really do _feeling_.

"You keep things fun," Stiles is saying from his lap, laughing at nothing. Peter looks down at him, eyes lit up with golden specks from the yellow light of the living room lamp, and wonders if he knows what he's saying. "You know?"

_Fun_. Yes, it's been fun. Pushing Stiles against walls and blowing him when his father's downstairs, chuckling with him over Derek's sour disapproval, taking his time slowly pulling Stiles apart every time he has him naked and waiting underneath him.

"What happened to _terrifying_ and _unhelpful_ being my main descriptors?" Peter asks, and he slings an arm around Stiles' waist. His shirt is riding up and he's catching a view of the bruises on his hips, dotted upwards in sundry shades of purple.

"Don't forget _manipulative_ and _creepy_," Stiles adds, and then he's laughing again, the hiccupping of his chest reverberating through Peter's body. "They still apply."

"Ah," Peter says. It feels nice to joke about what people insist are his flaws and what he insistently calls his best traits—and there's that phrase again, _feels nice_.

"Whatever this is—" Stiles gesticulates between them, hands clumsy as he does so.

"A conspiracy," Peter answers for him.

"Right, a conspiracy," Stiles giggles, like hearing it labeled as so never fails to make him laugh. Peter feels something tighten in his chest—probably rusty chains wrapped around his ribs—at the sight of his drunken laughter. "Well, I like it. It makes me feel… I don't even fucking know. Free?"

And he does look free. He looks happy and young and easy in his own skin, one hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle and the other curled around the soft cotton of Peter's shirt. It makes Peter wish he could get drunk just to feel the same careless high Stiles' smile is riding on, or better yet, to be just as young and undamaged. Peter is so damaged, sometimes he feels like he has to pin himself together by the broken seams in the morning before he gets up.

And he could do the very same thing to the dynamic between them as well. He could damage it just by digging his fingers into the seams and pulling apart the spots where affection or comfort or familiarity has filled the gaps, and Stiles would eventually get bored or offended or both and then leave. It's inevitable, the leaving. They will leave—maybe Stiles will first, or maybe Peter will—but the sooner the better, rather than draw this out and fix an unsteady ticking clock over their heads. One day their bodies won't know each other at all, and it makes Peter feel strange. Strange in a way he can't even identify. One day Stiles will fall in love with a sun-kissed frat boy who holds his hand when they walk to class, and Stiles will get new marks on his neck right where Peter's used to be, and he'll have someone else claiming him every night. It leaves a bitter taste in Peter's mouth, because even if it's easy to pat Stiles on the head and reassure him that he's going to be breaking hearts left and right, imagining it is a bit more troublesome. Maybe he ought to start leaving right now, walk out the door and forget to come back before he sinks his claws into Stiles' heart for good. Stiles would get over it eventually.

"Is that okay?" Stiles asks after beats of silence have passed. He looks slightly more unsure now, the laughter gone and replaced with a hint of uncertain sobriety. He looks so very human lying sprawled on the floor with his head in Peter's lap, and who is Peter to ever deny him?

"Yes," Peter finally gets his voice to say, sliding his hand to Stiles' head to brush back his disheveled hair. "That's perfect."

"You know," Stiles says, and he's back to smiling now. "You should come with me. To college." He reaches out to snag Peter's wrist, thumb sliding back and forth over his pulse point. "I don't want to have to miss you. This."

_You. This._ Is there even a difference anymore?

He looks at Stiles' eyes, glossed over with intoxication and something that looks like _ease_, even in Peter's presence, and Peter feels a strong desire to say something. Anything. Probably something more human than what his vocabulary is made for, so he settles for sliding his hand up Stiles' thigh until he's alert again.

"You have anything else nice to say about me?" Peter asks, feeling a little clipped. "Or would you like to suck me off?"

Stiles chuckles, and he pushes aside the bottle to heave himself up from Peter's lap. He settles into his personal space, breath strong of vodka, and licks over Peter's smirk so his lips fall open. "I'll stroke your ego or your dick, but not both."

"You drive a hard bargain," Peter murmurs as Stiles' teeth graze his chin, hands fastening over Stiles' hips where he knows his marks still are, always are. He slots his thumb into the nook of his hipbone, pressing in until Stiles gasps.

He fingers Stiles that night until he comes, twice, and in the back of his mind he thinks _this is when I promise to wreck him forever_.

Instead he bites down on his thigh and watches his body shudder, and leaves it at that.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Things have been going pretty well for Peter and Stiles... it would be a shame... if something... happened to them...

* * *

"Bet I could give a better blowjob than you," Stiles says from where his head is dangling off his bed, Peter frustratingly occupied with the laptop he's propped up on Stiles' desk, like whatever's on the internet is more interesting than Stiles taking his pants off. Stiles doesn't know where Peter's getting his information, but he can personally say from firsthand experience considering that for seventeen years all the hot action he was getting was the warmth from his laptop on his legs, sex is a marginally better way to spend his time.

It's one of his last days before Stiles has to stop procrastinating and start actually throwing all of his most useful furniture into a box provided that it will all still fit in a dorm room so small it could probably give Harry Potter's under the stairs cupboard a run for its money, and the air is thick with something heavy that for once, isn't the lingering smell of successful sex. It's an uncomfortable, unspoken admittance of the fact that Stiles feels palpably, that Stiles' departure date creeps closer and closer still, and the most frustrating part is not knowing if Peter feels it as well.

But Peter likes competition, as does Stiles, always eager to prove himself. He remembers June as mostly a haze of blowjobs and sore knees just to keep up with the contests they would throw at each other. _Who can be teased the longest without coming? Who can deep throat during head? Whose hand jobs are mind blowing rather than fairly adequate?_ They're both creatures of habit, obsessed with the chase and the challenge, so Stiles figures a good BJ-Off might diffuse the tension.

"Your mouth is obscene, that's for sure," Peter murmurs, clearly distracted. Stiles didn't know when it became acceptable for Peter to start bringing his laptop and camping out on Stiles' desk almost like they're honest to goodness _hanging out_, clothes and all, but it feels strange in his stomach. Like he's eaten too much Jell-O. Like it's domestic.

"It's more than just my mouth," Stiles persists. "I've got mad tongue action."

"Mad tongue action?" Peter repeats faintly. "Your technique is a B+ at best. It'll improve."

_It'll improve_. There it is again, the subtle reminder that soon Stiles will be at college sucking off random students in campus cafeterias and Peter's encouraging it. He might as well be handing Stiles condoms and pamphlets. The reminder that Stiles will no longer be around and that Peter has no interest in following.

Okay, no, Stiles doesn't really care. It would just be nice to know if spending the last few months playing hide the salami left any impression on Peter at all. He's not expecting _Best I Ever Had_ mugs to come gift-wrapped on his doorstep, but honestly, a little acknowledgment that Stiles was even in his life at all and so very differently than the others at that shouldn't be so radical of an expectation.

"My technique," Stiles grits out, confident and aroused and horribly aggravated, "is in the A range. Forget that, I'm at the top of the class. I'm an oral sex valedictorian."

Peter raises an eyebrow over his shoulder from where he's devoting unnecessary attention to his computer. He says, "Would you like to prove that?"

"Hell yes," Stiles says, and it's all the motivation he needs to crawl off the bed and swivel the desk chair Peter's occupying in his direction. "If you shut that down already."

Peter looks down at him, much too smug for Stiles' liking, like it's his god given birthright to be sexually serviced by young boys. At least he's paying attention, Stiles thinks, and he wonders if that's problematic. How much he enjoys Peter's eyes on him.

He pulls away Peter's belt buckle and unzips his pants, Peter obediently lifting his hips for him to slide his jeans off his legs. His hand is still fiddling with his mousepad, and Stiles watches while pulling aside Peter's underwear to make sure the cursor is drifting down to the off button. Eleven long seconds later, the screen goes black. Stiles feels like he just won a contest for attention against a machine, and that's either the saddest or most satisfying moment of his day.

"Well?" Peter prompts, spreading his knees. "It won't suck itself."

God, so damn cocky. Stiles grabs the base of his length with an almost ferocious annoyance at his boldness, at the things Stiles lets him get away with.

"Remind me why I'm with you again?" Stiles grits out. For a man with currently no control over the safety of his penis, Peter stays frustratingly smug, smirk plastered on his face like it's a permanent installation.

But he knows a surefire way to remove the smirk and wipe every trace of haughtiness off his face, and he ducks in tongue first and licks along the length of Peter's erection. Sure enough, the smirk makes way for a pleased curve of his lips as Stiles flattens it against the head.

And god, it's almost embarrassing how much Stiles loves giving head. The way he gets to pull Peter apart and listen to his unrestrained groans of pleasure, the way his mouth fits around the head of Peter's dick and the way his tongue is used to his taste. It makes him want to wreck his throat and pull back to rasp out "I'd do this all day" just to watch Peter's hooded eyes flash and his thumb press into his cheeks where he can feel his own dick in Stiles' mouth. It's addictive at best.

"Mmm, perfect," Peter is saying above him, going lax in the chair as Stiles takes him in to the back of his throat. A hand curls into his hair, pulling him further on his cock, and that's all Stiles needs to take Peter in further and start up a rhythm. He flattens his tongue under his cock right where he likes it best and presses himself closer just to feel the answering twitches of pleasure vibrate off his legs.

And it's a bit unfortunate, Stiles thinks, just how well Stiles knows what Peter likes. Peter probably knows too, knows where Stiles' most sensitive spots are and has catalogued them in his brain, and then Stiles thinks about how Peter wants him off to college without so much as throwing a wave over his shoulder. It feels like a waste for a moment there, two people discovering each other's bodies and their needs, learning what makes them gasp, what they sound like when they come, and all of the dirtiest details, just to move on without a shred of remorse. Where does all the intimacy go? Does it stick around in the universe, untouched by both of them, or does it get passed along to the next guy where they'll have to do the familiarizing all over again?

"Teeth," Peter hisses above him, the grip on his hair tightening, and Stiles remembers the task at hand. Dick in his mouth, right, right.

He probably deserved a little bit of teeth anyway, Stiles knows that much, but dives back in regardless. His throat already feels sandpapered and his jaw is aching, so he sticks to slow, lollipop licks up his head that he knows will satisfy Peter. The taste on his tongue goes bitter as he runs his tongue along the dotting of precome there, just salty enough to make him pull back for a second. He wraps his hand around the base of Peter's cock as he does so, keeping his fingers occupied.

"We should really invest in some pineapple juice or something," Stiles says as he smacks his lips together. His voice is ruined like crackling spots in a wall, raw around the edges, and it seems to arouse Peter that much more as he yanks Stiles back onto his cock and feeds his hips into his mouth.

The hand on his hair is just on the side of rough, pulling Stiles onto his length as he rolls his hips, and Stiles flicks his eyes up to maintain eye contact. He shouldn't poke the bear like this, revving Peter up like a race car that could run him over, but then Peter's moving his hips and Stiles is moaning as he pushes further into his mouth and nudges his throat. Peter should be gentler, softer, more delicate with Stiles, but Stiles doesn't mind, his entire being thrumming with the weight of Peter in his mouth, on his tongue, leaving his taste there. His own dick is straining in his jeans, and it's almost embarrassing how much he enjoys this.

"You love this," Peter mutters, and it doesn't even have to be a question. He can probably smell Stiles' needy arousal in the air, can hear the way his staccato heartbeat is pulsing against his ribcage, and pulls out before rocking back in with a breathy sigh. This is the best part, the portion of the program where Peter lets loose moans of approval that shoot straight south that sound like praise meant only for Stiles.

Peter's thumb reaches down to trace where Stiles' mouth is stretched around his dick, his finger rubbing over his lower lip before skirting upwards where he can feel the press of himself through Stiles' cheeks. His touches, even fleeting, feel reverent and hot and unbelievably stimulating, every slide of his hands over Stiles' cheeks, lips, throat all making him that much harder.

"Look at you," Peter is murmuring, his hand moving to Stiles' jaw to hold him in place there. "On your knees for me."

Stiles should really tell him to stop talking to him like he's a low class prostitute, but he's a little too occupied and a little too turned on to complain right now. Peter's stomach is twitching, just a few telltale flutters of his abdomen muscles, so Stiles moves to take the tip in his mouth and suck, and that's enough for him to be grabbing Stiles' hair hard enough to rip off the strands and finish with jerky bucks of his hips straight onto his tongue.

It's almost overwhelming for a moment, Peter's come bitter in his mouth, but he swallows it down as Peter stills above him, the hand in his hair going lax.

"You've gotten so much better," Peter is murmuring, and then he slips a finger in Stiles' mouth that Stiles licks on instinct. Something in Peter's eyes flashes.

"Thanks," Stiles rasps out in response. He sounds like he just got out of dental surgery, his voice raw and scratchy, and he takes in a deep breath of air before remembering the throbbing dick between his legs still in need of attention.

But before Stiles can stuff his hand into his jeans to rub at his stiff cock, Peter is yanking him off the ground and all but throwing him on the bed, the mattress croaking in response. He's cupping him through his pants, tugging him in for a kiss that's all teeth, and then Stiles' pants are gone and there's delicious skin on skin contact.

Peter's hand is fast on him, too swift to focus on like the landscapes that whizz by from the car window or punches that smack into him over and over, too quick to recover from. Stiles grabs for Peter's shoulder and lands unsuspectingly on his hip, squeezing hard as Peter pumps him unrelentingly.

They aren't even kissing anymore, their mouths just pressed together, Peter's teeth a ruthless pressure on his lower lip while Stiles tries to breathe. It's always too much with Peter, always like he's being pushed blindfolded off a cliff as he gets close, and then Peter's slipping from his mouth to behind his ear to the sore bite marks littered down his neck. It feels like overkill, like he's experiencing too many senses all at once, one or two of them probably otherworldly. His hand finds the back of Peter's neck, gripping tightly where the hem of his hair bristles against his fingers, and he pushes his hips into Peter's grip.

It happens too fleetingly—one second Stiles is gasping for breath and the next he's spilling out over Peter's hand, his form convulsing with the force of his orgasm. The stars align for a few blissful seconds where all Stiles feels is pleasure, not a care about if Peter doesn't want to see him in college or isn't planning on missing him at all, and then—

"Well, that didn't take long," Peter drawls, and then has the gall to wipe off his hand on Stiles' sheets. "You must've gotten worked up just from sucking me."

"Yeah," Stiles says, hazily at best. "I liked it."

"Me too," Peter murmurs, planting a few lingering sticky kisses up his collarbone. "Especially when I think about you getting hard just from having my cock in your mouth."

He leans in to kiss said mouth, Stiles lazily responding with a few swipes of his tongue. He never wants to get used to sex, for sex to be anything but this good. To come as hard as this and then start downgrading would be a serious flaw in life.

He feels like he's melted into the bed, bound to become just another wrinkle in the sheets, but his body still tries to convince him to drape his leg over Peter's knee. Three agonizing seconds of movement later, Stiles thinks it was a good use of mustered energy. He looks at Peter's face, something quiet and satisfied and almost content in his eyes, and Stiles feels the unexplainable rush of an urge to capture it on film, almost like this is the sort of thing he won't be convinced really happened ten minutes ago, that Peter could look so soft. He feels like if he blinks, he'll miss it forever, which is a shame when his eyelids have become so heavy. A camera would be useful.

But he still hasn't recovered the urge to move, not while he still feels like a Lego who was removed from his bottom half, so instead he lets out a comfortable sigh and shifts his thighs. It's all comfortable even in the sticky aftermath of him coming, Stiles not even willing to grab tissues. Vaguely, he wonders if that's what love is all about. Not wanting to grab tissues right away.

He's going to miss this, he thinks fiercely, his brain unable to let it go. Peter pulls him back to present day California with a soft brush of his knuckles over Stiles' temple where the beads of sweat have gathered.

"So was that A+ or what?" Stiles asks, quite proud. Peter's still looking directly at him like he's the most riveting thing in the whole room, and that includes the giant snowboarder stuck on his wall.

"You'll pass the class," Peter tells him. Stiles loves his voice after sex, all rough and tumble.

"Get this," Stiles starts, a grin already forming. "So you'd say that that blowjob was a _sexcess_?"

He starts cracking up over his own joke—grade A humor if he does say so himself. Peter sighs, so loudly it can probably be heard echoing in outer space, and the sight only makes Stiles laugh harder.

"Oh dear," Peter shakes his head. "You're very lucky you're such a pretty boy."

"You love my fucking jokes!" Stiles says, punching him in the arm.

"I just love your fucking."

"You love _me_," Stiles says, Peter's teeth nibbling down his neck, and it falls out of his mouth easily, even if it hangs in the air like an uncomfortable confession.

But Peter says nothing, and it's in moments like this when Stiles wishes he was a werewolf just to listen in to the sound of his heartbeat, just to hear if it stutters that tiny fraction like a telltale needle on a lie detector test.

"Stay," Stiles says on impulse. For a while, for a bit longer, for enough time to pass for him to make peace with the idea of Peter walking out of his life. It's stupid, he knows, because back in sophomore year it would have been a blessing from above to have Peter Hale and company perish from the earth and his nightmares, but that's the thing about sharing sheets. Things get personal.

"What would daddy say?" Peter drawls, but it isn't an outright dismissal like a throaty laugh and a smooth slide to his feet to grab his pants and hop from the window would be.

"Just lock the door," Stiles mumbles, mentally reviewing his father's work schedule. If he comes home late enough, he won't even bother sticking his head into Stiles' room to see if he's passed out face first on his bed.

Peter heaves a sigh but gets up anyway, plucking Stiles off his chest and wandering to the door. First Stiles is sure he's leaving and raiding the pantry on his way out, but then he hears the snick of the door shutting and the lock sliding into place and he relaxes on the bed. Peter actually comes back, nudging Stiles' shoulder for him to make room.

"This bed isn't suited for two people, Stiles," Peter reminds him. Sometimes Stiles feels crowded when it's just him, the mattress too small and the sheets too short, but he scoots over anyway to make room. The mattress still doesn't dip with the weight of a man.

"Just a nap," Stiles says. "Just for a minute, old man."

Peter huffs and that's the extent of his displeasure, Stiles smiling into the fabric of the pillow as the bed creaks to signal Peter's arrival. He manhandles Stiles by the shoulders so there's room for them both, Stiles hanging halfway off the edge right before Peter reels him into his chest.

"Half a minute," Peter grumbles, like the idea of taking time off to sleep is him doing Stiles a personal favor, and it makes Stiles roll his eyes under his eyelids.

And then he breathes in and smells Peter's aftershave, the scent tickling him where he's pressed into his neck, and half a minute turns into a few hours. Peter doesn't complain.

* * *

In the light of the golden sunrise, Stiles' skin looks like he's been spending his evenings rolling around in red grapes making wine.

He pokes one bruise, particularly purple under the bright yellow illumination provided by his bathroom's overhead lamps, and mutes the yelp threatening to slip from his mouth. His chest looks like he was in a mauling with a polar bear, a fight that including biting, scratching, and bruising. Stiles traces a few angry red lines courtesy of Peter's nails down to his stomach and thinks control might be a good thing for Peter to start learning. Stiles too, probably.

He looks like marked up territory, full of spots that seem awfully symbolic of possession. It's a miracle Peter hasn't peed on him yet.

Then again, it's not like Peter cares that much. He might be possessive during sex, with hands that cage Stiles in and growls of promises to never be touched by another's hands murmured on his neck, but it's all heat of the moment. Stiles gobbles it all up too.

He grabs his toothbrush as he pokes and prods at himself, vigorously brushing as he twists around to see if his back is in the same sordid state as his front. It is, reddened and demanding to be seen from the back of his neck all the way down to where his boxers curve up his behind.

The sad part is that his flesh is not the only sore thing he's waking up to today. He has a crick in his neck and a few more in his back from sleeping like a pretzel on his mattress, Peter pressed up against him and monopolizing most of the room. He wants a bigger mattress. He also wants a mirror on the ceiling just for fun and to give a waterbed a try, but what he wants most of all is for his father to not find out about the strange man sleeping a room away.

It's six a.m., a ghoulish and unfair time of day that offers him nothing but circles under his eyes, but this is the price he has to pay when conducting an undercover sexual affair in his own home. Any longer and he risks his father knocking on his door or hawk eyes distributed in the rest of his nosy neighborhood. He strolls back out of the bathroom with his toothbrush stuck in his mouth to see if Peter's still asleep.

He is, completely unaware of the surrounding world, his body draped over the entirety of Stiles' bed and soft exhales leaving his lips. He looks relaxed and unshaven, like he belongs in Stiles' room among everything else from the superhero trinkets on his desk to his shoes by the door to his crooked music posters up on the wall.

He reaches a hand out to trace the line of Peter's hair on his forehead while the other steadies his toothbrush, foam warm in his mouth, and brushes his palm over the soft skin on his jaw right before it reaches stubble. Stiles snatches his hand away a second later, because _hello creepy_. He's hanging out with Peter too much.

He goes to head back to the sink before the toothpaste starts dribbling on the carpet, but Peter keeps his attention before he does. Maybe it's because he's deep in slumber, still unperturbed by the morning, and something about him looks at peace this way. Completely uncalculating. Almost human, even.

Stiles leans in closer and catches sight of the barely there wrinkles scattered up to his forehead. They look just like Derek's stress lines, premature and telling a million tales of running from hunters and healing in huddled corners of the woods, and in Peter's case, scheming murder with narrowed eyes from his hospital bed. But in the soft light of a dim sun, everything about him looks innocent.

_I think you're actually sort of amazing_, Stiles thinks.

He pulls back from the bed like he's been burned, mattress springs screeching at his sudden departure. And woah, where the hell did that come from? Probably flew all the way from the Land of Ludicrous Thoughts just to lodge itself into Stiles' brain.

And god knows why he thinks so. Peter's a fucking mess, too hot and cold to ever gauge properly, too insane to comprehend, like an abstract painting that no matter how long he looks at the brushstrokes, he still doesn't understand the meaning.

Like the bit about the frat boys and his pretty mouth. Stiles frowns at the bare expanse of Peter's back, because his brain must be a horribly dusty place. He goes from possessive to the point of animalistic to blasé about what he used to make clear was _his property_ right before Stiles would slap him in the balls for creeping him out.

_Mine, mine, you're mine, Stiles,_ he would say, hands gripping bruises on his hips, the spot Stiles is always blue and purple because of Peter's demanding fingerprints.

And then he wants Stiles to go to college and blow a kiss goodbye over his shoulder without bothering to turn his head. It sounds easy enough in textbook form—fuck your fuck buddy, and then don't—but Stiles' brain keeps popping up with a defiant _that's it?_

And yeah, that's probably it. It's sex, the very thing Stiles was foaming at the mouth for for years, and Peter had seemed like a good choice at the time because the idea of messing around with him was safe in all the ways he never was as a person. Stiles didn't think he was in danger of falling prey to feelings or real life emotions when a man that irreparably damaged was involved, and he's pretty sure Peter hasn't even grown a heart yet, so the understanding was mutual. It was sex, and when Stiles goes to college he'll go and find someone new to dazzle with his newfound knowledge about all the ways he can use his tongue.

_Yours, always,_ Stiles would pant back, voice raw.

Even thinking that Peter is interesting or fun or cool to hang around is stepping into dangerous waters. The appeal of Peter Hale is just how unlovable he is, and that's why this worked for a few months without the fighting and screaming and inevitable compromise that comes with an actual relationship. Stiles wasn't promised an actual relationship, he was promised sex, and that's exactly what he was delivered. Sending it back now with an angry customer complaint and the receipt hardly seems possible.

_No one else touches you like this. Mine._

He's angry by the time he's leaning over the sink again, spitting out residue toothpaste and sticking his head under the faucet to rinse away the bubbles, and the worst part is that it's an anger he's technically not even allowed to be feeling. He's angry because why—he wasn't memorable enough to be asked to stick around? Because the fact that he's actually enjoyed rolling around naked with Peter is in sharp dissonance with the rational part of his brain wired to distrust and generally dislike him?

Stiles reaches out to poke Peter in the ribs when he emerges from the bathroom again, eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. His dad will be up and running in half an hour at the earliest, and even worse, the curmudgeon old lady across the street with the bibles practically sewn into her hands will be tending to her garden in twenty minutes and won't take lightly to Peter jumping shirtless out of Stiles' window and strolling out of the neighborhood on his way home. She's already seen enough if the mailbox chats she's been secretly having with Stiles' father are any indication.

"Get up," Stiles says to the lump in his bed, and it seems very small when he's lingering over it. Too small to fit them both. Did they really stay that close all night that nobody was in danger of toppling to the floor? "Or did I wear you out that much?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Peter mumbles, voice thick with sleep. It's nothing like how Stiles has seen Derek sleep, eyes snapping open at the slightest footstep, almost like Peter's let himself be comfortable around Stiles. That, or he doesn't view him as the slightest threat. Stiles pokes him hard in the ribs again, only to be yanked down by his wrist.

"You talk too much," Peter growls, dragging Stiles close as he tumbles gracelessly onto the mattress.

"Let go," Stiles tries to pry his wrists free, eyes wary of the clock and warier of the sounds of footsteps in the hallway alerting him of a father awake earlier than expected. "You have to _jump out the window_."

He probes Peter in the stomach with his free hand until Peter snags his second wrist too, lazily peeling open one eye to survey Stiles. There are lines on his face from Stiles' wrinkly pillowcase and he seems very soft here in the morning, body harmless from sleep, and Stiles fights the urge to nuzzle against his cheeks, rough without the trimming of a razor.

It makes him wonder how often Peter is like this, or better yet—how many people does he let see him like this? Unguarded and open, like he'd be willing to share secrets and build a pillow fort right now.

For a second, nothing but sadness suspends over Stiles at the thought, because maybe this is the extent he sees of Peter's secrets, just the thin surface they might be hiding under. He's so in the dark about who Peter even is, his knowledge extending to how he likes his dick sucked.

"Hey," Stiles says, Peter grunting in response. "What do you do all day?"

Peter doesn't miss a beat. "You."

"I'm serious," he arches his knee up to nudge him. "Other than cruise for underage boys. What's your goal for the future?

Peter gives him an odd look, slightly calculated, like he's wondering why Stiles even wants to know. He tugs sharply on Stiles' wrists until he's situated on his chest with little to no grumbling about the handsy maneuvering, Peter's legs parting so Stiles slips between them.

"What about you?" He asks, a real master of diversion.

"Stop answering questions with more questions," Stiles says, hardly amused. Then again, it's not like Peter owes him any life stories and ultimate goals and personal anecdotes.

"Fine, I'll _guess_," Peter says. His fingers trail circles around Stiles' wrist as he thinks. "You find yourself a nice girl daddy will dote on after rebelling through college—presumably sucking dicks—and start an apple pie family in Beacon Hills because no matter the trauma you went through here, humans are creatures of habit. You will stay the eternal jokester who hides behind sarcasm, and try your hardest to make a difference in the police force. Maybe you'll do some good catching speeders and writing traffic tickets."

He finishes his prediction with a flourish and a shark-like grin, like a politician very pleased with himself, and Stiles counts in his head exactly how many indirect insults were just tossed at him.

"You could make a profession out of being offensive," Stiles says, wrestling his hands free. "Have you considered that?"

Peter lets him slip free with little struggle, nestling back into the pillow the moment Stiles pushes himself off the bed. His eyes close a second later, perfectly content to fall back asleep without a single worry creasing his forehead. It must be nice, Stiles wonders, or maybe a little twisted, to live such a demented life with such a free conscience.

If only he had a heart, or a functional soul, or even just emotions Stiles could work with, mold into something tolerable. He looks at him, sprawled over Stiles' bed in a rumpled shirt that looks like it's calling out to him for an innocent morning snuggle, and pokes him in the hip.

"Did you say all that stuff to get out of telling me about your future?" Stiles asks Peter's firmly shut eyes.

First, he says nothing, feigning a deep slumber Stiles is getting increasingly annoyed by, and then he mutters, "You're a good fuck, Stiles. You don't need to know what my favorite color is or what my dreams in life are."

It actually makes Stiles blink and step back, because wow, Peter goes from hot and cold like a shabby motel's plumbing. His nastiness is always right there under the surface whenever Stiles gets too close or prods too close to home, asks that one question that's crossed the invisible lines he's drawn up. Stiles is tired of being unaware of the walls he's stumbling through.

He thinks about how they will fall apart, that much is sure, and how much easier it would be to tell him right here and now how much of an unlovable asshole he is and get it over with sooner rather than later. He could tell him to stop lurking under his window, stop texting him invites to his bed for the weekend, and stop pretending to indulge in Stiles past the point of making him come, but he doesn't.

Instead he says, "Get out of my fucking bed and jump out the window already," and grabs the nearest pillow to punch forcefully over Peter's head. The soft thump that sounds in result doesn't sound nearly as satisfying as a porcelain vase or a glass bottle might have, but before Stiles can follow through on his ideas Peter is getting to his feet and pulling his pants on. He looks rumpled, from his furrowed eyebrows to his sleep-mussed hair, and Stiles thinks a good second hit to the head with a stuffed pillow is exactly what he deserves.

"Whatever you say, sweetheart," Peter mutters, all acid as the words drip from his mouth, and then he's out the window before Stiles can come up with a good comeback.

* * *

The being offensive and annoying and a generally hard to deal with crusty dickwad, that part Stiles is used to with Peter. The rusty chains around his heart as he watches him jump out Stiles' window, just one step closer to jumping permanently out of Stiles' life, is something he's not used to, and doesn't even want to be.

He probably needs to talk to someone about this, Stiles rationalizes as he examines the situation. Find someone impartial and unload all of his prickly feelings off his shoulder. They'll probably explain to him how unreasonable he's being, and they'll make so much sense that Stiles will have no choice but to believe them and go back to living an uncomplicated, simple life. How long has it been since he's had that even?

Honestly, it's _Peter Hale_. The only genuine feelings he should get around him should be discomfort or concern for the mental health of the people walking this earth, because if even only a fraction of them are as fucked up as Peter they're all doomed to a grisly end.

He sits down on his bed that smells like Peter on top of the sheets rumpled by Peter's legs in a room where Peter's touched every object and tries to divide and conquer his emotions. He's probably just feeling unloved and unmemorable and overwhelmed by change to boot. Maybe all he wants is the confirmation that Peter has noticed his presence in his life the past few months and might even be upset over the lack of Stiles in the months to come. Maybe then he'll be sated.

The thing is, those are all things Stiles is feeling. He's actually going to miss Peter, the rotten bastard, and not just the way he makes fireworks explode in his every limb when he fucks him. He's going to miss having a second apartment to sneak off to for a late night rendezvous and someone to bicker with over takeout in nothing but socks. The idea of saying that particular thought out loud is making him nauseas.

And that's probably because no matter what happens, _this could never work_ in a setting beyond just a bedroom. For many reasons. One, his father. Two, the shame and embarrassment of being publicly enamored with a cold-blooded murderer. Three, the horror that would inevitably come the morning of a repeat of such a cold-blooded murder with Peter licking his chops and telling Stiles to put his grave-digging shoes on. And four, Stiles' dignity. That's four too many reasons for not being with someone.

So it kind of sucks that he's grown attached even when he continuously promised Peter he wouldn't. It had been rip-roaringly hilarious to think about falling in love with Peter back when this all began, because this isn't Beauty and the Beast.

He backtracks a little in his mind for a moment because hold up—he's not in love. He's slightly fond at best. He's feeling the clench of prematurely missing someone in his chest. He's being supremely stupid because he cares about keeping someone in his life who doesn't share that same interest. Since when does that translate as love?

He's still hopeful that he'll move into a tiny dorm he hates and forget all about Peter. The way he sees it, one adage has to be true, either absence makes the heart grow fonder or out of sight, out of mind, and he'll figure out pretty soon which one is.

Well, Stiles thinks holding onto the one comforting bit about his thoughts, at least he will never, ever, ever tell Peter any of this.

* * *

"You should tell Peter."

The scariest part of the sentence is that Scott is being perfectly serious, like he genuinely believes he's just come up with a good idea. It's not. It's a dumb idea that happened to find an ally in Scott.

"Why on earth would I do that?"

"I don't know. Maybe he'd like to see you when you leave too."

"And how would that conversation go?" Stiles asks. "Hey Peter. I know you're too batshit to understand the concept of feelings, and I know that we said this would only be hot sex, but I'd like to see more of you. You know, like a real relationship. The thing you're probably allergic to since I'm not sure you have a heart."

He finishes it off with a dry flourish, his gaze boring into Scott's as he waits for him to step in and correct him. Scott sighs.

"You know that's not what I meant," Scott says. "Just tell him that you enjoy spending time with him."

Peter would laugh at him, he's sure. He can practically see it happen in front of him, how Peter would smirk and snicker and say something infuriating akin to _you realize that orgasms and love aren't actually related, right_ and Stiles would be forced to suffocate him with his t-shirt. Peter's made his stance on his relations with Stiles perfectly clear—no attachments, no emotions, hardly any talking. And all Stiles had to do was look in the mirror each morning and forcedly tell his reflection that _Peter Hale is the worst_ just as a daily reminder. Apparently, he forgot.

"He doesn't want to be anything other than naked friends," Stiles mutters to the ground, rubbing at his forehead. And it's not like he doesn't like that bit. He loves getting naked for hours at a time and learning what his penis is really good for. Turns out, a lot. But he also likes some of the other things, the things he was told not to like from the very beginning. "He doesn't even want me to know what his favorite color is. His _favorite color_, Scottie."

"Just ask him how he feels," Scott says, like it's just that easy. Maybe if this was a normal romance, the kind of cookie cutter high school movie you find on TV courtesy of John Hughes, it would be. Stiles would saunter up to his locker and leave an invite to prom in his binder. He doesn't have that luxury. "Worst case scenario, he doesn't feel what you do."

"And then I shrivel up into a prune from humiliation."

"And then you get to go to college, far away from him," Scott reasons. "And you never have to see him again."

It's a good point. It's hard to be tormented by someone's rejection when he's miles away buried in beer kegs and partying, shirtless freshmen. Still—

"How would I even phrase it?" Stiles asks. This still feels hopelessly pointless, like he knows perfectly well what the outcome will be without having to experience it for himself. It's not like he's low on his embarrassment quota of the month.

"Any way you're comfortable saying it," Scott tells him. He's being so reasonable about this, making it sound like it might actually be a productive conversation, and Stiles hates that. He heaves a long, heavy sigh.

"Okay," he acquiesces, grumbling only a little. "Maybe I will."

There's only about four hundred ways this could go wrong, but it might be worth a try.

* * *

"Whatcha working on?"

Stiles peers into the dining room in time to see his father sitting at the table with opened folders and strewn papers in front of him, a beer in one hand and his reading glasses in the other. It's not the first night he's taken his work home with him, but Stiles wasn't aware that there were any cases prevalent enough right now in his pile that merited him studying evidence at home.

"Just a case that we got some new information on," his dad tells him. It interests Stiles more than packing up any belongings that can actually fit in a two feet by two feet dorm room upstairs does, so he slides into the dining room and leans against a chair's headrest.

"Yeah? Which one?"

"That one from a few months ago," he says. "The one with the woman in our backyard."

"Oh," Stiles remembers the night in vivid detail, and not just the bit where Peter slinked up to him and touched him through his boxers next to the police cars tempting him with offers of stress relief. "That was a while ago."

"I know, but I guess other cases took priority in the lab," the sheriff shrugs, setting down his bottle of beer. He sets his glasses on his nose and starts shuffling papers together.

"So you found some information? Do you know who killed her?"

"We got some prints off her body. Of course they don't mean anything definite, but it certainly makes this guy a person of interest." He leafs through the papers in his hands, clearly exhausted if the droop to his eyes is anything to go by, and he hands over the pages without a single half-hearted lecture about how police stuff is none of Stiles' business.

"Who was it?" Stiles asks, eyes scanning the papers.

The heel of the sheriff's palm massages his temple as he shrugs. "Some guy, don't remember his name. It's on the bottom of that page there."

He taps his finger on the edge of the paper, right underneath the scans of the partial fingerprints gathered from the body. There, in capital letters, reads _EXACT MATCH FOUND: Peter Hale_.

Peter Hale.

It feels like the world drops around him for a moment and he's suspended in space, like falling out of an airplane, probably, and Stiles stares hard at the letters as if waiting for them to rearrange before his eyes on the page. They stay still, staring at him like hard, black, inky facts. Peter's fingerprints were found on this body, on the body of a slaughtered murder victim right in his backyard. The night Peter had come strolling out of the shadows and had first touched him past the point of grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. Peter's involved. Peter's probably a murderer—again.

It's like a punch to the stomach. His dad had said it himself—he's only a _person of interest_—but Stiles doesn't need more evidence. It's damning enough, combined with Peter's notorious search for power and his telling history. Once a killer, always a killer, it seems.

But why? What was the point of killing a strange woman that no one in the town could even identify? Is he just that fucking crazy? Stiles feels the air drop out of the room as he shakily gets to his feet.

"You okay?" his dad is saying, eyebrows furrowed as he watches Stiles stand up. He probably looks pale, just on the side of ill, and Stiles nods instantly.

"Fine," Stiles assures him. "I just—I just have to check something out."

* * *

He knows Peter arrives by the breeze that wafts in from the window, a subtle wind that slides over his cheek. He looks up from the bed and there's Peter, already on his feet and brushing dust off his pants. It looks so casual, so endearing and almost human, that Stiles feels something lodge in his throat. Probably his heart.

"You're insatiable," Peter says, and he shrugs off his jacket. "But I will say that I have dinner reservations, so less foreplay would be appreciated."

"It's not that," Stiles says. He fiddles with his hands, pressing his palms together, lacing his fingers, tapping out rhythms against his knees. He sees Peter's eyes flicker down to his nervous ticks. "I was just with my dad."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he gets to his feet, wishing his legs felt sturdier underneath him. He has to confront this headfirst, like ripping off a bandage, and wonders if Peter would kill him for what he knows. He always told him that he wasn't a threat, that he knew too little and had too little bravado, and now here he is with all the prime cards in his hands for once. "We were going over some evidence from the station, and turns out he has fingerprints from the body that was in my backyard months ago. Remember her?"

Peter's eyebrow raises slowly. He seems interested, not the least bit nervous, and Stiles wonders if his heartbeat increases at all and Stiles' ears just don't pick up on the sound. He's a good actor, always has been, and Stiles feels unbelievably stupid.

"I do," Peter says. Mildly, he seems to test the waters and asks, "They know who killed her?"

"Not yet," Stiles says. "Just found fingerprints. But that's pretty damning, don't you think?"

Peter looks at him levelly, as if mentally drawing together a picture of how much Stiles actually knows, or how much he's pulling out of his ass for effect. He smiles, something taut that twists his mouth. "Whose prints were they?"

"Oh," Stiles says. "Yours."

The admittance hangs in the air between them like lightning, like someone's turned off the volume and all that's left are the cold stares of people who want more answers. Peter's still smiling, the sight like a mask that Stiles can see cracking.

"Any reason why?" Stiles speaks up when still, Peter says nothing.

"Why my fingerprints were on her?" Peter asks. Stiles nods, face tight and jaw set. "We had a chat that night."

A chat. Stiles is positive that that isn't all that happened, not with the way Peter's fixing him with a smile that could probably harden fire into ice. He murdered that woman for reasons Stiles can't even begin to understand, that much he knows—was it because he missed the feeling of taking human life? Because he wanted to feel powerful? Because she knew too much of something?

"A chat," Stiles repeats slowly. "About what?"

And this is Peter's chance, his chance to admit exactly what happened. His heartbeat feels unnaturally fast in his chest, pounding like a siren, and he wishes there would be an explanation available here, something to make it feel less like a slap to the face. That it was an accident, that he didn't know what he was doing. That he was in the wrong place in the wrong time.

"Nothing important," Peter says, vague as always. It makes Stiles boil over.

"I know you did it, so just," he searches for the words stuck in his brain. "Just tell me what the fuck it meant," Stiles manages to get out. It feels like something's lodged in his throat, wet and insistent like a flu's cough tickling his body. "Tell me what you're plotting, jesus."

"Plotting?" Peter says, and he's not taking Stiles the least bit seriously.

"What is it you want?" Stiles yells this time, anything to break Peter's skin. "To get revenge? To infiltrate packs? To become the alpha again?"

Peter's eyebrow twitches almost imperceptibly. Stiles picks up on it like it's a certain nod and feels his entire body cramp up, something cold and clammy wrapped around him like eels.

"Oh god," Stiles murmurs, feeling light-headed. "What exactly was your plan? To kill my best friend and steal his alphahood?"

He's so not fine. Everything is spinning, spinning, and he has nothing to zero in on to ground himself. Peter is saying nothing, and that's answer enough.

"What was my role in all this?" He asks, and he wishes his voice could sound as angry as he should be. It's frayed and helpless, like threads falling off a hem, nothing at all like the steady anger he expects to come out of his mouth. "Put Scott's guard down? Help you? Entertain you because I was willing?"

Peter's lips fall open, ready to speak, but he seems to think the better of it and Stiles fights the urge to scream and throw plates just to get the truth, the god forbidden truth out of his mouth.

"_Well?_"

Peter steps forward as Stiles persists, and whatever explanation he's drummed up, he's replaced with steely frustration.

"You do a good job of pretending," Peter says, "but I know that you could easily be exactly what I am. I know that you're not nearly as ethical as you pretend."

_What he is_. And what is he? A plotter, a murderer, a man with a one track mind that happens to take lives on its journey? He says it like he knows exactly who Stiles is, and what he wants to be, and how they're the same, both sharing the same brand of crazy. Stiles looks up and he sees something that chills him, a smile contorting Peter's face that is lacking all the smug warmth and fond exasperation he was used to.

It's barely there, but Stiles picks up on it, how the corner of Peter's mouth quirks up like he's the fisherman who's just roped in an unsuspecting catch, and there's Stiles struggling to breathe who didn't even know that there was a life outside the water. It's a grin no one's meant to see, the kind of grin Peter's face only adopts when he's planning and plotting, and oddly enough, Stiles had convinced himself that that grin had died. That it had been rehabilitated. He's so out of his mind he doesn't remember the last time he even thought clearly around Peter.

"Oh god," Stiles says, and he feels the world start to spin. "It's true. And I'm just—I'm just the kid who fell for it. Fuck." He looks up at Peter's eyes, a steely blue, and feels the temperature in the room drop further. "

"Stop it," Peter says, his voice hard. He steps closer. "I didn't do anything to you, Stiles. This isn't about you."

"Yeah, it really isn't, and that's the problem," Stiles says. "You only care about power, about being the baddest, about being the fucking Alpha. Who cares who gets in the way, right?"

He feels numb and fiercely humiliated, his hands shaking as he tries to turn away. He doesn't want to be here, even in his own home, and just wants to _drive_ until he hits an unfamiliar city and unfamiliar lives. Peter grabs hold of him by the wrists even as Stiles struggles to get away, to seek out the distance he hasn't wanted to put between their bodies for months. Peter's grip is unrelenting, yanking him closer even as Stiles' wrists turn red in his attempts to slide free.

"Fuck off," Stiles spits, and he doesn't stop writhing. It's a side of Stiles Peter's clearly never seen before—frightened sophomore, snarky junior, even perpetually aroused senior—but never this, fierce and angry and unyielding.

"Stop fighting," Peter hisses, and he's too close, close enough that Stiles feels his eyes sear on his face, and Stiles just wants to _get away_.

He finally succeeds in ripping his arms free, eyes trained anywhere but Peter's face. He feels duped and used and unbelievably humiliated, the embarrassment burning on his face and behind his eyelids. It feels like they've reached a crossroads, the very place Stiles knew they'd have to reach inevitably, something along the lines of _this is amazing, but I don't even know who you are_ or _thanks for the sex but that's all we have in common_.

And for a moment, all those thoughts where Stiles has led himself to believe that he was seeing a Peter kept dormant from the rest, a man more human than the monster, feel naïve and shallow. Peter's always been the same, and never pretended not to be, and that's what Stiles gets for disillusioning himself into thinking that people could change. That Stiles could change people.

"The woman. The one in my backyard—it was you." Stiles doesn't ask. He's pretty sure he already knows, he has all the evidence in front of him, and he refrains from swallowing back the uncertainty in his mouth for fear that it's audible enough for Peter to pick up on.

"Yes," Peter finally admits, and Stiles feels the bottom drop out from under him.

He was there, the very night he had touched Stiles for the first time with a purpose and suggested it become a routine, there long before Stiles saw him prowling out of the shadows. He was there, committing murder, and even if it's something Stiles is acutely aware of as being a skill in his repertoire, he had filed it away as something of the deep past. Acts of insanity. Acts of rage fueled revenge. Being deceptive, being manipulative, that's on a whole different level from murder.

"God," Stiles mumbles, and bites down the urge to be sick right here on the carpet. "That's why you were—so why did you even—"

He has so many questions, questions like _why did you involve me_ and _why did you even come up to me and stick your hand down my pants_ and _was it just because I was convenient? Forbidden? Willing?_ or the very worst, _was it because I could lead you to Scott?_ His brain is somehow unable to wrap around any of the words long enough to say them out loud.

"It doesn't have to be like this," Peter says. For a moment, it sounds like an apology, like regret, and then, "I could use you. You could join me."

And this time Stiles is physically falling through the hole ripped out underneath him, because here Peter is, trying to rope him into being his criminal apprentice with filthy nights on the side. Peter is so transparent, nothing but _bad_, and Stiles should've stopped trying to find anything inside him beyond that.

"What?" He mumbles, cold.

Peter steps forward and Stiles' reaction is to flinch. It seems like he wants to reach out and touch him, the look in his eyes fierce. Not yet, not ever, get away, his brain is shouting. "I know who you are. I know exactly how your brain works. I even know when you're lying," he reaches out to touch Stiles, hand poised in the air to do so, and seems to think better of it a moment later. "I know you're not stimulated here, not with your friends."

So the logical solution is to run off and start a murder brigade. Stiles looks in front of him and sees the crazy he's actually tried to pretend was curbed, was maybe even treated, and feels sick inside. He looks at Peter and wonders what Peter sees in him—a pet, an assistant, a liability, a toy to manipulate. Peter probably thinks he has him all figured out, that all it would take is one snap and Stiles would be just as evil, just as vindictive as him. Maybe he's right, but Stiles doesn't want to snap. He wants to fight to stay how he is, to stay good no matter how damaged he gets, and that's the difference between them Peter's not grasping.

"I don't want to," he says. He bites down on his lip, overwhelmed and upset and feeling like he's been cut open down the chest. "I don't want to be like you."

And he hopes Peter hears the way his heart doesn't skip, not like it did years ago in the parking garage, but instead stays steady and unyielding the whole time he talks. Because yeah, it might be freeing to cut loose those last inhibitions binding him to sanity and let his urges run wild like Peter, but he has responsibilities. He has friends and family and people who keep him from wanting to be so irreversibly free.

"You don't even know how much potential—" Peter cuts himself off, and he's looking at Stiles like all he sees are wasted opportunities and a useless moral high ground. "You're going to waste away here."

"Peter, you don't fucking get it," he slams his fist on Peter's chest, and Peter doesn't step back. Doesn't even look surprised. "I don't care how big and bad you think I could be. I want to be _good_, dammit."

This was never how he imagined this. He wanted it to be easier, lighter to look Peter in the face and give this all up. People kept warning him left and right—Peter is bad, Peter will hurt you—but nobody ever told him this would happen.

"What did all of this sickening morality ever give you?" Peter growls, and he's nearly nose to nose with Stiles now. "Does it stop the pain? Does it make your world a brighter place? It doesn't do anything for you."

This is probably the most Stiles has ever learned about Peter that mattered. It's what he always wanted, something underneath the exterior that gave way to the person beneath. The little things had always seemed so shallow, like how he likes to keep his feet bare and his coffee black. Those things were probably better. They were easier to swallow.

"Neither did you," Stiles says, and now that he's admitted it, it feels like it rings true. Peter gave him sex. Peter gave him passion. And what does that really matter at the end of it all? Who lies on their deathbed remembering those fleeting seconds of unattached bliss? Who looks back and thinks their time was well spent indulging in useless affairs?

And this is the moment, the moment Stiles had known would come. The moment they fall apart, long before Stiles had time to understand how any of it even happened in the first place. It hurts more than he thought it would, probably because he never saw it going down this fiercely. He thought maybe one morning he would wake up and Peter wouldn't be there and he wouldn't come back, and Stiles would go to college and drift into indifference about the whole ordeal, and then eventually he wouldn't remember any of the details, like how Peter had his heart in his hands and how Stiles hadn't even tried to stop it.

But no, this is the moment, here and now, and it isn't indifferent at all. He doesn't even know what to say, he doesn't know how to act. This is his biggest fault, he thinks, he never knows how to think ahead.

And he doesn't want to hear the explanations anymore. Why he killed that stranger—was she an Alpha? Was she an emissary? Was she important at all? Stiles doesn't think it would change anything to hear his reasons.

How wonderful, he thinks, that here they are not understanding each other. They probably never will.

"I don't—" he worms a hand into his hair, searching for something to pull on forcefully. "I don't think we should do this anymore. Whatever the fuck _this_ even was."

A conspiracy, Peter should say now, even though he doesn't. Because that's what they were. Something fleeting and crazy that nobody even understands, something the history books will laugh at. Stiles has never felt this hoodwinked in his entire life.

Peter stares at him levelly, eyes hard, and that's when Stiles notices that this isn't the man he's been looking at for weeks. He had known someone softer, or maybe Stiles had made him soft, or maybe Stiles' eyes had been blurred over, but the man in front of him is harder. The indecipherable murderer, the dangerous monster better left alone. He waits for him to say something, something human, something that dissolves the coldness in his eyes, but he doesn't. Maybe Peter knows it wouldn't matter now. Maybe he doesn't know how to say something human.

Instead, Peter says nothing. He looks as if he wants to use his hands to convey the words his tongue isn't speaking, his head tilted forward like he wants to kiss Stiles on the neck as a goodbye or slot his thumbs in their familiar spot on Stiles' hipbones. Stiles doesn't want him to do any of it, not while their entire conversation is still ringing in his ears, and he nearly backs away when Peter wraps his fingers around Stiles' fragile wrists. For a moment it feels all too reminiscent of years ago, the two of them in the parking garage, Peter's warm breath poised by Stiles' forearm.

He leans in. He still smells like all those years ago, a strong cologne and an even stronger disposition. "What a shame."

And then he's letting go of Stiles, leaving warmth where he had him by the wrists, and he's out the window like always. It would so easy to disillusion himself that it's just like always, and that he'll be back tomorrow night, and the night after.

A shame. A shame that Stiles refuses to conform to his ways, a shame that Stiles is not as evil as he had hoped? A shame that all of this is crashing and burning? He wants to know more, he wants to know if Peter is sorry, but he refuses to ask.

Instead he locks his window, latch shut tight, and presses himself into the blankets that are too hot, too stifling on his body.

He wakes up alone, the bed empty. His hand sweeps over the mattress before he even opens his eyes, searching out a warm patch or the soft expanse of a body stretched out next to him. There's nothing, and that's all it takes for him to remember.

What a shame.

* * *

A/N: Enter the break-up stage.

If you're surprised that Peter is a big bad murderer again, a) why are you surprised? are we watching the same show? and b) stay tuned for more illumination on the matter. I just love a good curveball.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles leaves behind an inhaler, a hoodie, and what is probably an overdue essay stuffed into a weathered notebook in Peter's apartment.

It's a bit unsettling, actually. Looking at these things doesn't scream sex and passion, it screams secret relationship tucked away into the shadows. So do the wrinkles in the sheets, and the half-drunken water bottles in the fridge, and the strong scent of boy lingering in every corner. Peter doesn't know how to process even just the mere idea of someone leaving an imprint on his life.

What's even more unsettling is the idea of returning the aforementioned items. It's not like they're important, like they're priceless heirlooms Stiles carelessly left in Peter's possession under the delusion that this would be a good place for safekeeping, so Peter isn't under any obligation to return them. Peter isn't the man who strolls through train schedules so he can hop over to his ex, say hello, perhaps share a sandwich or two, and then hand over a paper bag of forgotten items. Peter is the man who throws them over his shoulder into the garbage to be freed from his responsibility.

_I was afraid I lost it forever,_ that would be Stiles' deadpanned remark were Peter to graciously return his worn gray hoodie. It looks like it used to have stripes, the barest hint of them turned brittle and faded in the harshness of the sun, and it's a stupid thing to leave behind. It's an ever stupider thing of Peter to keep.

Keeping is a strong word, he maintains. He slides it on a hanger and puts it in his closet never to be worn. It's like keeping library books past the due days, past the point of paying the fees. Might as well. It's much easier than enduring the lecture from the elderlies working at the library regarding due dates and keeping promises and respecting the rules of volunteer-run facilities.

_I'm not surprised,_ that's what Stiles would say if he were leaning in the doorway watching Peter stuff Stiles' belongings out of sight. _You've already accomplished murder, you might as well add petty theft to the list._

It's not a crime, though. If it is, it's a crime of indifference. Or, in the light of the brightest of silver linings, it's a favor Peter's doing for Stiles by not forcing him to see his face again. If he was a better person, he'd give the items to Derek to send down the grapevine to Stiles, but he's not a better person, and this is something Stiles knew from the start.

Why bother changing now, especially when everyone's opinions of him have already been cemented and his reputation is solid as a _bad man_. He might as well avoid the confusion and stay a bad man.

_Would it kill you to make a change? Maybe not ruin people's lives and just try it on for size?_ Stiles would probably say. But Stiles isn't here right now, so Peter decides to stick to what he knows best.

* * *

He visits Derek two days later, purposefully without a break up bag in hand, and is hardly greeted with open arms as he swings open the rusty loft door.

"Why are you here?" Derek deadpans a moment later as he steps inside. It isn't a heartfelt hello and slices of company cake, but Peter will take what he can get for now.

Peter smiles at him. "I can't visit my favorite nephew for no reason than just to stop by?"

Idly, Derek checks his watch and seems to consider it. Then he promptly dismisses the idea with an unyielding, "No." He heaves a sigh. "Why aren't you with Stiles?"

"Why would I be with Stiles?"

"It's four in the afternoon," Derek says. "You're normally fucking."

Peter opens his mouth and closes it a moment later. It disturbs him a touch that Derek is aware of their schedule, from when they're fucking to when they're available for drop-bys without anybody stumbling on any compromising positions. He seems a bit more on edge than usual, and Peter wonders if it has anything to do with Isaac leaving the nest or if Stiles got here first and rattled off the whole story of heartbreak and betrayal. If he did, Derek shouldn't be surprised.

"We're not fucking anymore," Peter breaks the news. "We were, but then he decided to grow a moral compass. It's adorable."

It isn't actually adorable. If anything, it's disappointing and unexplainably irksome. His opinion on the matter must show in his face, as a moment later Derek squints at him critically.

"What happened?"

"So Stiles didn't already rat me out and tell you the whole story?"

He can't imagine that Stiles would. He's smart enough to know that if he's looking for a therapist to whine to, Derek would hardly be the best option. Still, something on Derek's face is crawling under his skin, like he was anticipating his conversation.

"No," Derek says, and then he gets up and wanders over to the kitchen. It feels a bit like a dismissal of the conversation that Peter is interested in ignoring.

"I'm surprised," Peter says, even though he's not. Stiles is hardly the type to blabber about his illicit affair with an older man with a bad reputation all over town just for giggles. For weeks, he was too paranoid to even take his pants all the way off even in the private confines of his locked room lest his father magically and suddenly stroll in on his son being deflowered, he'd hardly boast about their relationship now that it's reached its nasty end.

"Did you come here looking to hear Stiles' version of things?" Derek asks, like he knew Peter had ulterior motives. He reaches for the bread sitting by the sink and cuts it open to start spreading condiments. This hardly feels like the time for lunch, but Peter avoids mentioning that. "I don't know anything." Derek sets down the knife and repeats himself. "What happened?"

Peter condenses it into one pain-free package. "He left," he says with a blasé shrug of his shoulders. That much is true, if not vague.

"Did you do anything to him?" Derek murmurs suspiciously to the sandwich he's creating.

"What are you implying?"

"I'm implying that you're good at destroying things, even if they're good for you," Derek says.

Peter huffs. Derek's one to talk. It's the kind of indirectly back-handed statement that Peter can't help but wonder if there are teams at play here. He isn't exactly up to date with the latest teenage heartthrob romance novels, but he's pretty sure this is the part where the group splits. He looks at Derek, stern over his sandwich, and thinks he at least has his nephew nailed down on his side. Blood privilege and all that.

"Well, he survived," Peter tells him with an airy wave of the hand. "And I know that's more than what you expected."

"I didn't expect anything," Derek says, and Peter knows that's not true. He probably expected bloodshed and scandal. "I thought you didn't either."

He didn't. Peter expected exactly what he bargained for and then reeled in: a handful of very naked weeks with a clever boy. It was fun, up until the end. Who reads a book all the way to the end anyway? It's the middle that counts.

He wonders if Derek knows more than he lets on, if Stiles has confided in him but sworn him to secrecy on account of his own embarrassment. It's not like he _wanted_ this to end in a fit of unshed angry tears and slamming doors, not that he knows how he actually wanted it to end. Peacefully would've been stupidly optimistic. Quietly would've been too oblivious to Stiles' natural tendency to be loud. Maybe he hadn't thought that far ahead. Maybe he hadn't wanted to imagine an end at all.

Derek's crossing the apartment back to his chair when he looks at him again, mouth full with a bite of sandwich he's holding in one hand.

"This was never supposed to happen like this," Peter sighs. He thinks about adding _I never wanted him to actually care_, but then again, he's not even sure if that's true. "If I could go back in time, I'd warn myself away from him."

"You can time travel and the only thing you do is warn your past self away from Stiles?" Derek is incredulous, if not dryly so. Peter raises an eyebrow in his direction.

"You make it sound as though I have a mountain of regrets to choose from."

"You do," Derek says, but doesn't push the topic, instead sliding to his feet and setting his half-eaten lunch aside. He crosses his arms like an unamused parent finding out about a bad grade, which Peter is by no means intimidated by. "What wasn't supposed to happen?"

"Pardon?"

"You said it was never supposed to happen like this," Derek arches his eyebrows, waiting impatiently for a deeper explanation. "What wasn't?"

Peter makes a show of looking around just to make sure he hasn't magically landed inside a therapist's office, Derek's face unfazed as he does so. "Are you sure we don't need to fashion a talking stick for this particular conversation?"

Derek says nothing, perfectly capable of maintaining a stony silence, and Peter wonders if it's because he's genuinely uninterested in how the story turns out or if he's just that bored of his uncle's antics. Probably both. Peter decides to spare Derek the wit on his tongue since he was the one who drove out here in the first place, uninvited at that. Even so, Derek should work on having some company snacks at the ready if he's planning on orchestrating long talks concerning feelings in his living room frequently.

"It was just supposed to be sex," Peter finally says, but he keeps a firm smile on his face just to appear as perfectly unperturbed by the topic of a teenage boy as possible.

"And it isn't anymore?"

"Well, the sex has stopped."

"I meant, did it become more than sex?" Derek asks. "Did you grow to like him?"

Peter's lips curl up into a displeased frown. "Why wouldn't you assume he's the one who got attached?" He asks hotly. "He's the young, naïve one."

"Because Stiles is perfectly aware of what a horrible person you are," Derek says like a man sharing weather forecasts. Peter makes a mental note to be insulted about that later. Bad? Yes. Horrible? Let's not exaggerate.

"He's tolerable," Peter says, and leaves it at that. Some days he doesn't even reach that status, just barely scraping the ceiling of _too much work to kill_. "And... interesting."

"Interesting?"

"More interesting than the rest," Peter clarifies. It's true. Stiles has small quirks, things probably only he knows about—if not Scott—and for one fierce second the idea of having to share his intimate knowledge of Stiles' idiosyncrasies with others brings white hot flares to his chest. It shouldn't, not when Stiles has a lifetime full of strangers who will become intimate with the knowledge of his skin and his secrets ahead of him, but that's a habit that Peter will have to shake off.

"Did you love him?" Derek asks out of the blue. He asks it with the air of a police officer asking routine questions to his third group of underage teenage drinkers speeding on the highway of the night, each word punctuated with a bored, nearly pained sigh. His arms are crossed and his eyes look deadly serious, which are all the cues Peter needs to let him know that he doesn't want to take part in this conversation. This is what he gets for being social.

"I liked him," Peter says slowly. "Love sounds like it requires a lot of involvement."

"And you only involve yourself when there's something in it for you?" Derek asks. He still sounds bored, almost like he's used to Peter's habits by now, almost like his selfishness is downright predictable, and Peter feels an agitated tick in his jaw come to life at Derek's judgment.

"It's a smart way to live," Peter says, and then just to make it sting, "You'd probably fall for less traps set by lunatics if you'd follow my advice."

Derek glances up, mildly annoyed by now. Peter can tell by the way he's set his jaw, knuckles unmoving where they're tucked into the opposite elbows.

"I think I'll be leaving now," Peter says, quite uncomfortable. If he wasn't, he would probably take the time to be impressed by Derek actually succeeding in making him feel so. It's been a while. "Lovely chat. Keep up this unproductive lifestyle of yours."

With that he slips on his jacket, shrugging his shoulders into the sleeve and heading for the door with a tight smile. He looks around at the rusty pipes and the sparse decorating and briefly wonders what good he thought would come of visiting a man who can't even put up a few plastic plants for ambience.

"You can't do it forever, you know," Derek calls after him. Peter slows down his brisk stroll to the exit. "Treating people like shit and watching them leave and pretending you're happy about it."

He doesn't know a thing, Peter thinks, and wonders how long it would take him to explain.

"Thanks for the life advice," Peter says over his shoulder, not bothering to stop. As if he needs tips from a man holed up in a loft with questionable plumbing whose life might as well be a cautionary tale for small children. Peter firmly maintains that he himself is different.

"I'm not on your side on this one," Derek says so he has the last words, that bastard. Peter yanks the front door open, all signs of _loft 3a sux dick all day for no pay_ gone. It feels like a lifetime ago when he was standing here loftily admitting his and Stiles' relations while Stiles hid his face in his hands. Everyone's always embarrassed of him. If he cared more, he'd wonder why.

"Because you usually are?" Peter asks, and then shuts the door behind him.

Alienated, and it feels so good.

* * *

Peter twists the word _love_ around in his mouth the whole ride home and the walk up the stairs, even his mental voice saying it bitterly at best.

No, he didn't love Stiles. Stiles certainly didn't love him, even if he did try to. Love is something he doesn't even believe in, just another thing the human race clings onto like religion and the idea of uncorrupt politics to keep from crying themselves to sleep at night. Not that it isn't powerful, mostly because other people do believe in it and Peter would be a fool to underestimate the power of the human mind. It's probably just all that lust and exaggerated interpretations of their own emotions. If love is real, then it's something Peter hasn't known. At least not in a long time.

The thing is, if love exists, it isn't some flighty moment that warms a heart after sex. Chances are, it doesn't even exist before legal drinking age. And it probably involves actually knowing things about a person.

And that's the thing—Peter knows things about Stiles. He knows what junk food fills up his pantry and he knows what medication he needs to function. He knows how clumsy and over eager he is to throw himself and his car head first into a situation with questionable safety. But Stiles, he doesn't know anything about Peter except what's on the surface.

So fine, maybe he isn't that easy to figure out. Maybe he isn't so one dimensional. Maybe he isn't actually hollow on the inside, but that doesn't make what's under his skin prime material for show and tell. Stiles liked the way Peter made him feel, liked the doors he opened for him in terms of sex and pleasure and freedom. He had hoped that he would like what's hidden underneath the surface, and he didn't.

Here's how it goes—Peter is deceptive, manipulative, and an all-around shady and untrustworthy character, something he's made his peace with. Actually, he'd go as far as to say that he's quite happy with himself considering how lucrative his lifestyle has been for him. Others, however, frown upon these prime characteristics, because society is fragile. Society wants to see the trivial beauty rather than the truth, which is why cashiers don't care if you've had a nice day and Stiles wouldn't care for anything other than his skills in the sack.

And he's okay with that. That's what he wanted when he first saw Stiles outside that murder scene and thought about how nice it would be to lick at his collarbones as the red lights of the ambulance flickered over one hemisphere of his face. In his humble opinion, people should stop pretending to be interested in the whole of a person, one hundred percent of what they are, because chances are that they're really only interested in about twenty, maybe forty percent. The rest doesn't appeal, doesn't slot into their idea of what a good, likeable person is. Everybody might as well just use the parts they want and leave the rest for somebody else.

Peter wanted Stiles' body, not his emotions, not his words, not his love. He wanted what his skin and his touches could give him, and he got it. If he expected this to end any other way, he hadn't thought this plan out thoroughly enough.

And that's the biggest problem with Stiles—Stiles encourages his impulses. Stiles makes his heart race and his animalistic urges claw to the surface. He sees Stiles and wants, just _wants_, and doesn't stop to pace himself. He's a mastermind, someone who likes to lay out plans and schemes with curveballs and unforeseen circumstances, and with Stiles, he didn't bother. He just took what he could and made it up along the way. Things get messy when he ignores his nature.

* * *

After that day outside his house, the night where he was buzzed from two thrills: murder, and watching Stiles come in the bright red light of a police car's headlights, Stiles did not seek him out. He was far too proud to, and probably far too paranoid to look for his address on his father's work computer, and far too unsure of what was right and wrong to consciously find Peter and tell him yes, I want more, more of your hands on me.

So the only sign Peter got was the unlocked window leading to Stiles' bedroom and the tiny amount of golden light sifting through the night he passed by. It made Peter consider that this was not the first night Stiles had left the latch open hoping to subtly attract Peter's attention, and he pulled himself up the roof and rolled into Stiles' room without preamble.

He had screamed, and not in the dignified way. Peter had to forcibly quiet him with a hand on his mouth lest this meeting be spoiled with Stiles' father knocking on the door in concern, and only when he had stepped into the soft lamplight did Stiles relax in his grip. Or at least, stop kicking and shouting under the muffler that was Peter's palm.

"Jesus fuck," were Stiles' first breathless words. "What are you doing?"

"Don't play coy," Peter had said. He was an aging man with no time for frivolous chit chat. "I saw your window was unlocked."

"So you invited yourself up?"

He shrugged. "I figured you were interested in my offer."

Stiles' body shifted—left, then right, then left again—in a way that let him know that his suspicions were right. So he pushed his way into Stiles' personal space and kissed him on the neck, right where he could hear his heartbeat flutter, and Stiles' didn't back away in panic. He stayed, tense at best, but he stayed in Peter's grip without pulling free.

That's how things were with Stiles, always subtle. He never said what he wanted out loud unless he was on the brink of orgasm, like he was ashamed to admit anything out loud that could be used against him, something like _I'm willingly spending time with Peter_. He kept those thoughts inside, and that made him more of an enigma than Peter was all too happy to admit.

Sure he could smell most of his wants on him, could read his body language. He could tell when he was driven with lust and when he was irritated by Peter's attitude, but reading his emotion, and better yet, figuring out _why_ he was upset when Peter didn't pay him enough attention, or why he got angry when Peter told him to go to college and wasn't planning on coming with, that he ignored. That was a touch too human for him to bother examining.

So maybe it wasn't Stiles' fault for becoming attached, it was Peter's for not noticing.

* * *

Back in May, when one murder in his backyard had Stiles so rattled he let Peter into his pants, that was when it all started. Nothing happened before, not until the nights were muggy and the idea of summer already seemed too hot, too pushy, but Peter, he had noticed Stiles before then.

And honestly, how could he not? In his defense, he really is _obscene_. The bow to his pink lips, the slender fingers, the smooth skin dotted with moles, all of it was meant to entice, to capture, to torture, probably. Him being feisty and too brave for his own good was just an added bonus. The idea of taking his time corrupting him was irresistible, of finding the right button to push to make the boy fall silent and put those lips to good use.

It had taken a week after Peter had jerked him off at a murder scene for Stiles to take him up on his offer, for him to physically seek him out himself. Peter hadn't minded prodding a bit in the meantime, seeing an unlatched window and helping himself up the drainpipe and asking Stiles if he was ready to pick up where they left off, but Stiles had remained unconvinced and unsure for several days. It was probably a matter of guilt, worrying about how many of his own beliefs he was ignoring by sleeping with a man who, in all fairness, had once been impartial to whether he lived or died morbidly, which Peter understood.

Looking back, Peter was certainly persistent. Almost to the point of pushy, like that one salesman you just can't shake in a tiny store, and it makes Peter wonder if he really wanted Stiles that much. If he was already addicted to the idea of spreading Stiles out underneath him and memorizing every inch of his skin, after only one touch, one fleeting encounter outside his house. He climbed up to his window more than once, trying his best to coax Stiles to _give in_ by slipping hands around his hips and grazing his fingers over his clothed erections, and each time, despite the shudders and the bitten back groans, Stiles had stilled his wandering hands.

But eventually, Stiles had come to him. He found his apartment, probably with the help of his father's police records, and stood there in the doorway, a determination in his eyes that was probably born out of hormonal want and a restlessness in his hands. Peter knew he had what he wanted then, and he didn't have to ask for it. Stiles came in willingly, his own feet leading him into Peter's living room and his own mouth saying the words _okay, let's have sex_.

The first thing he had said after was "so do you kiss on the mouth?"

It had been funny at the time. Stiles had been so unsure, so uncomfortable with every touch, that it had seemed like a miracle that he reached out to Peter for more than just one fast handjob in the night. Peter had laughed and grabbed him by the belt, because how could anyone with a mouth like that think it wouldn't be welcomed in the party?

"There are many things I'm going to do to that mouth," Peter had murmured right against his skin, cataloging every shiver that could've meant both arousal or the telltale signs of scaring easy. Peter wasn't going to disillusion him. He wanted all of him, and he wanted it for the taking. "Kissing is just one of them."

"What about the rest of me," Stiles had persisted, body rigid and uncertain. It had been nearly impossible to control himself, not reel him in and lick into his mouth until Stiles would melt against him and the fidgeting would give way for boneless pleasure. "This isn't some ploy to kill me, right?"

"Because that would be worth my time," Peter said, and it apparently was the wrong thing to say, because Stiles straightened up and his mouth fell open in wordless indignation. So endearing.

"Is this supposed to get me out of my pants?" Stiles asked, arms crossed over his chest. If Peter had known he had to first break into his chastity belt, he'd have brought out the right tools.

"So you want me to kill you?"

"No," Stiles had been stumped for a moment, then fallen back on track. "I want you to consider how worth killing I would be. Not that you should. But I'm a huge threat."

"Fine," Peter said, anything to end the conversation and replace words with roaming hands. He had waited long enough. "I'll fill out some paperwork officially marking you as a threat. Happy?"

Stiles frowned, apparently put off from sarcasm if he wasn't the one dishing it out. Peter considered bringing that particular hypocrisy up, but was familiar enough with how to charm a boy that he knew it would be wiser to keep quiet. "Mockery. Another great way to get into someone's pants."

That was the moment any reasonable person would've walked out, Peter thinks. People keep telling him how unreasonable, how rash, how irritable he is to deal with, but apparently, Stiles could withstand it. Either he had a hard skin or an incredibly relentless libido.

"And this isn't some big ploy to get me to fall in love with you, right?" Stiles had asked after that. It had seemed that the entire evening was turning into a question and answer session, but that question was one Peter couldn't ignore. It was downright laughable, and he had to struggle to keep the bursts of mirth at bay.

"I don't want your heart," Peter told him, and decided he was done letting words do the talking in this conversation. He edged closer, close enough to be in Stiles' personal space, and dragged his thumb down Stiles' cheek to his lower lip. "I want your body, your fingerprints, your mouth. Especially your mouth." His eyes flicked down to Stiles' lips.

And Stiles watched him, practically in awe, eyes hooded and breath hitching with every inch Peter whittled away between them. Any fear he had for Peter sliding into his personal space was replaced with an overwhelming desire to reenact every one of his fantasies if the heat radiating from his body was any signal at all, and Peter decided not to ignore it.

He backed Stiles up against the wall after that and pulled down his pants before he could change his mind, before he could process that Peter Hale was about to suck his dick and run for cover and change his address. He was a teenage boy, one desperately interested in being loved and admired any which way he could, and being desired was at the top of that list, fueling Stiles to curl his shaky hands into Peter's hair and watch his cock disappear between Peter's lips. It had probably been the first time anybody had touched him with such headiness, touches that lacked all the hesitance and apprehension that his friends and peers might've reserved for him.

Derek probably would've called it "taking advantage," what with how Stiles was powerless to pull away once Peter had yanked his pants down and mouthed the outline of his dick through his boxers, because he was young and untouched and eager to be brought to orgasm no matter whose hands were responsible. Peter might've been inclined to agree, too, except that Stiles would come back, and come back again, and again after that, and it didn't take long for Peter to figure out that Stiles actually liked being taken advantage of.

* * *

The first time they had sex, sex that was past the point of Stiles letting Peter jerk him off in his bathroom while his father was away, it wasn't great.

It was a little uncomfortable and Stiles was a lot nervous, too unsure in his own skin and too desperate to prove he could keep up. He was horribly uncomfortable, unsure of his body, and when Peter had pulled the shirt off his head, he had hunched in, scrambling to flip off the light and plunge the room into darkness. It was a miracle Madonna wasn't singing _Like a Virgin_ in the corner.

So really, he has no valid reasoning as to why he came back for more.

With Stiles, it had been all about stripping away his instincts. His instincts—as right as they might have been—were warning him away from trouble, and by extension, Peter. Altering pure intuition, raw reflexes, and built-in thought processes takes time, but afterwards, it's all about teaching someone to replace their urges with trained commands, like when dealing with puppies yet to be housebroken.

He had to start at the very basics with Stiles. Teaching him to no longer view Peter as a threat who would cut out his eyeballs in his sleep was step one—not that Peter doesn't appreciate being feared, but it's not a trait one particularly looks for in a sex partner—and teaching him that getting naked with him was perfectly acceptable, even _good_, was step two. Stiles harbored guilt for "betraying his friends" and "consorting with the enemy" for weeks, probably, but those were all things Peter had no time to verbally talk through as a makeshift therapist. So he coaxed Stiles into complacency with his hands, his tongue, his mouth instead, and eventually, it would work.

"I've never," Stiles had said, eyes flicking back and forth from Peter to his bedroom door, locked obsessively and yet still worth of his paranoia-fueled attention. "I mean, this isn't my usual Thursday night."

"I know," Peter drawled. "Now take your shirt off. Wait any longer any you'll be entertaining my skeleton."

Stiles fidgeted, hands crumpling over the hem of his shirt. And honestly, Peter didn't understand what the all the fuss was about "losing virginity" and "being deflowered." Sex shouldn't be seen as giving something up, rather as bringing something wonderful _in_, heartily opening the door to a whole new world of pleasure and new experiences. Why Stiles was okay having someone fondle his balls but not his hole, Peter wasn't sure, but he was willing to give him a courtesy period of approximately five minutes to get used to the idea.

"Fine," Stiles grumbled. There was a fire in his eyes like he was trying to meet Peter's level of assuredness with an unwavering confidence of his own, but just didn't have enough moxie for the follow through just yet. "Just promise not to fall in love with me when you see me totally naked."

"I'll try my best," Peter promised, but Stiles still seemed to be having difficulty. He wasn't sure if it was the paranoia or the shame or the fear of exposing his body when someone would be looking at him with purpose, but Peter was not here to identify the cause of his uncertainty. Just get rid of it. He sat up on Stiles' bed, elegantly slinging his legs over the edge. "Would it help if I turned off the light?"

"Yeah, let's try that."

So he did, leaning across the bed to turn off Stiles' lamp. If it was to hinder Peter's vision, he had forgotten about his werewolf ability to see through the shadows, even though Peter was pretty sure it was more about Stiles' own ability to not.

He thought about how now was probably the time to step in and comfort and assure, but if Stiles was having fear similar to a seventh grader undressing in the locker room, that was something he had to tackle on his lonesome. It gave him that flicker of doubt that perhaps low self-esteemed and underage shouldn't be Peter's target group for sex, and for that moment plunged in the darkness he wondered exactly how much of a fool he was sitting in an eighteen year old's room for reasons other than paid babysitting. Then Stiles' hand reached out and touched him on the chest, and he thought that showing a smidge of compassion couldn't hurt.

"Stop being so bashful," Peter said, pulling Stiles in by the wrist until he stumbled between his legs. "Trust me. You have nothing to be ashamed about. You're... intoxicating."

He emphasized this point by nudging Stiles' shirt away with his fingers and chasing the exposed skin with his tongue. Stiles' chest, right under his mouth, flattened as he exhaled shakily. Stiles' fingers flew up to grab him by the hair, like a moth to a flame. Not for nothing, Peter was good with words. And his hands.

"This isn't about me," Stiles insisted. "Maybe I want the lights off so I don't have to see your ugly mug. Maybe I'm having distress over the idea of doing it with a murderous lunatic."

Peter looked up from where he was dragging open-mouthed kisses up Stiles' stomach. "Doing it?" He parroted, quite incredulously. "Are you ten years old?"

"Sorry," Stiles murmured with a smarmy edge to his voice. "Is my lingo boring you? You've probably been hearing that one for centuries."

Peter let his humor slide with nothing more than a gentle raking of his nails down Stiles' side. "If you're so brave," he murmured on his chest, "then come and get me."

And that was the thing—Peter might not be good with caring about people, but he was more than good when it came to reading them. Stiles was like all the rest, strongly under the impression he was immune to any and all mind games but vulnerable to them anyway because he was spreading all his cards out on the table when he thought he was keeping them hidden under his fingers. Stiles liked challenge and being poked at, and that was something Peter was more than happy to exploit.

He spread his legs and took casual notice of the way Stiles' hardness was bumping into his thigh, his breathing hard and his pulse racing. Peter waited, and he waited, and he waited to be taken up on his bet and the ante to be upped.

Through the shadows and the hesitance, Peter heard Stiles' voice break through the quiet. "Oh, fuck it," he said, and then his lips were on Peter's and his legs were in his lap.

And in the darkness with his hands on Stiles' hips and his mouth swallowing his gasps, he had thought _I will corrupt him in every which way_, wondering exactly how someone so young and futile could be so dizzying, so maddening, so, so addictive.

Months later Peter still doesn't know the answer.

* * *

Peter goes out for a cup of coffee later on in the week, just something to prove to Derek that he does actually leave his apartment and doesn't spend all his time scheming in the darkness of his bedroom, and finds himself in the middle of what seems to be caffeine rush hour.

The coffeehouse close to his apartment is packed, full of bustling employees looking for a shot of espresso during their break and youngsters looking for someplace cool enough to hang out, and Peter ignores them all in the corner booth where he's occupied with his newspaper and his drink. He looks around and knows instantly that this is the kind of place that would make Stiles lean in to whisper into Peter's ear _we've found the home of the hipsters_ and then make fun of Peter's coffee order.

He almost smiles up until he realizes that this is _disturbing_, the fact that he knows Stiles so well he can accurately create his side of the conversation. It sours his entire afternoon, even when a man, probably freshly at the legal drinking age, sidles up to his table while waiting for his order and smiles at Peter. He notices because of the wave of attraction that washes over his nose almost instantly, and he looks up in time to see the man leaning next to his table with a soft smile.

"You might be the only person left on this earth still reading newspapers," the stranger says, cocking his head to the paper in Peter's hand. "Not a fan of technology?"

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the man is flirting, his eyes sliding from Peter's face to his chest to his hands in one appreciative sweep. And it's a little odd, because this is the sort of attention that Peter usually devours with a smile. This man is exactly his type, too, with sleek hair and a slightly dimpled smile, slender hands curled around textbooks in his grip like he came here for an afternoon of peaceful studying. Young, handsome, and blatantly innocent, that's Peter's target audience, and yet, somehow the newspaper story regarding the seagulls being the Beacon Hill Zoo's new addition is more successful in grabbing his attention.

"I'm impartial," Peter tells him, and that's all he's in the mood to tell him. Normally he'd be one step closer to implying that his clothing would look good on his bedroom floor. Strange.

"You meeting someone here?"

Peter looks at the seat next to him, very much empty. He looks back to the man, a hopeful grin on his face, Peter could probably find at least thirty ways to bring him to orgasm. "Yes," his mouth is saying, for whatever reason. "My apologies."

And he returns his attention to the newspaper's story about the seagulls, vaguely registering the sound of the man's retreating footsteps.

* * *

Out of all of the pieces of unintended loot, the inhaler is the most disturbing. It makes Peter wonder if Stiles has a second somewhere, and if not, if he's resigned himself to sharing Scott's old one from high school when the asthma attacks strike. Every time he so much as glances as the thing, starkly white against his dark cabinet, he remembers how fragile, how human Stiles actually is.

It makes him consider returning it. Silently, of course, but somewhere he'd find it. He could easily sneak back into his house undetected and shove it into the clutter on his desk to be found weeks later. It might give him a touch of peace of mind, which is a silly thought in the first place, because Stiles' wellbeing should have no impact on the peace of his mind. His mind is usually put to peace when he knows he's ruined someone's day.

So he thinks about throwing the inhaler away instead. He doesn't, but he sits it next to the trashcan anyway.

* * *

The woman had been an emissary. He would say that finding her had been a happy accident—or perhaps a bloody one, in this scenario—but it had been premeditated. Peter's never quite that sloppy.

She being in town meant only one thing: there was a pack with her. And with a pack, came an Alpha. And with an Alpha, came opportunity. His nephew had carelessly thrown away what he had taken from Peter, what he had killed to grab, but Peter wouldn't let his power get away from him again. This time it was here to stay.

Unfortunately, she had refused to talk. She gave Peter no information about the whereabouts of the pack she was traveling with, about where they were headed, or who they were. Killing her had been out of frustration, but it served dual purposes: also sending a warning message. Peter made it obvious it had been a wild animal that had killed her, left little to no room for assuming it was a knife or an average man that had committed the crime, and waited for her pack to hear wind of her murder.

What he hadn't realized is that he'd done it in Stiles' backyard.

It might have been kismet, some twisted form of fate that figured it would be funny to involve Stiles in his plans because Stiles always manages to throw a wrench in his schemes even if it's completely accidental, but at the time, the humor was lost on Peter.

Stiles shouldn't have been angry. He knew exactly what he was in for with Peter, had firsthand experience with how he operated in matters of murder, and did he assume it would be different in matters of sex? As far as Peter believes, once you find a system, stick with it. Hard and rough always gets the job done.

He thinks about how furious Stiles was, cheeks flushed and fingers curled into fists, and how he hadn't understood. If there's anything simple in this world, it's power.

He had planned it for a while, long before the coma. The idea of being an alpha was exhilarating, even just the intangible thought thrilling. To hold that weight, that power, that respect in his hand with a flick of crimson eyes, to form a pack so strong and resilient they could take down whatever wasn't worthy of the life they were granted, it seemed like the ultimate form of control. And if there was anything Peter didn't underestimate, it was control.

He still controls people even without being an Alpha. It's a gift, he thinks, an unteachable trait that allows him to manipulate as easy as he can smile. People frown, people try to lecture and wheedle him out of it, but what Peter knows people don't understand yet is that deception is a part of everyday life, it's just your choice if you want to be on the receiving end of it or pulling the strings.

Getting out of the coma and taking the alpha status from Laura, it was everything he thought it would be. His body was vulnerable, hypersensitive, and feeling that surge of power through his every limb was like a rebirth. A chance to start over with what he deserved, a reclaiming of power he had so unfairly lost in the fire.

And now here he is, having lost what was his, what he fought for, and now he's fighting for it again. Being the Alpha always made sense to him, always aligned perfectly with his sense of self, always allowed him to hold onto the power he craved, and that's all he really wants.

He wants this.

He _wants_ this.

The person he could be, the things he could achieve with that extra push—he wants it terribly. It's not worth wanting if it doesn't make him want to rip off a few heads in the process.

Except for Stiles, where it had been easy. There had been no need for plotting, for polite smiles and the sort of brilliant manipulation one can only be born with. He had wanted something, and then he had it, and it was easy in a way it never had been before. Stiles was almost like the thing he was never supposed to want, mostly because the only way he ever knew how to want things was to hold them at a distance where he couldn't reach, and Stiles, he was too close. Close enough to touch.

He had offered it all to Stiles. They could have been outlaws together, Peter helping Stiles to his full potential, and Stiles had declined. He was probably looking for a fairytale, something happy to balance out the horror of the last few years, something he could carry with him to college and use as stress relief, and Peter is not a fairytale. Not even close.

He should've known exactly what Peter wanted, unless he had been purposefully blinding himself for the sake of their relationship. _Relationship_, god. Peter is in a fucking mess.

He feels a little wronged, too. Sure, he wanted to be the Alpha, and sure, maybe he had considered Scott, but Stiles wasn't a pawn in his game. Stiles was the irresistible wildcard that got thrown in like an unsuspecting boomerang that ended up clouding his judgment. Stiles is fiercely loyal and unendingly true to his best friend, and anybody delusional enough to think that Stiles would willingly lead Peter to Scott for the sake of Peter's power isn't scheming properly. The bottom line is—if Peter laid a hand on Scott, Stiles would never lay eyes on Peter again.

And strangely enough, that's not what he wants. That's never what he wanted. Having Stiles' attention, having Stiles' affection, it was addicting. Ever since day one, when Stiles was a gangling sophomore scared of the Alpha he was, his attention was entertaining, enthralling. And now, thinking about Stiles' attention riveted elsewhere, concentrated on somebody fresh and new and undamaged, it prickles under Peter's skin.

And that might just be a low point in Peter's life, sitting at home pining over a teenage boy because he's interested in somebody new. It's what Peter wanted—hell, it's what Peter _encouraged_. And what would he even do if Stiles were to show up on his doorstep? Whatever it is Stiles wants from him, he's not in a position to give it.

So he's not going to say sorry. Sorry is for suckers. Sorry is for people who think apologies are the only way they can succeed, clear the conscience, free the chip on their shoulder. From personal experience, Peter can very boldly say that he doesn't mind the chip. It's nice to always have a quick snack at hand.

Not that he would even know what to say to Stiles. There are no words in his vocabulary meant for fuck buddies that are already out the door even if their stuff is still cluttering up Peter's space. He should throw it all out before Stiles starts infiltrating his every thought like an unshakable virus.

Ugh, he thinks, and then again for good measure. Ugh, ugh. This is why he avoids teenagers.

It's at that moment that Scott McCall knocks on his door, perhaps a warning sign from above to nip the working with youngsters thing in the bud here and now by purposefully ignoring the steady raps. Then again, he doesn't tend to listen to the universe's nudges and winks, so he opens the door anyway.

"Hi," Scott says, face determined. "I need to talk to you."

Well, Peter thinks. He probably should've expected this.

"Are you here for the inhaler?" Peter asks, and naturally, he isn't.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Here comes another fun fact: this chapter was the very first I finished in this story. I write my stories completely out of order after I outline them, to the point of writing the ending of one scene, then the beginning, then the middle. But hey, if it ain't broke.

* * *

_It's Thursday night, and there's a body in Stiles' backyard._

_It's not the type of event that colors his everyday routine, even nowadays, when finding a headless corpse in his bushes would be likelier than ever. It happens very suddenly—one moment Stiles is flipping through late night TV and the next he's heading to the kitchen for a refill of soda, and that's when he sees the dark shape in the grass through the porch door._

_The good news, he supposes, is that it's not someone he knows. Of course it's not good news that someone's bleeding out like pieces of pulled pork on Stiles' property, but nowadays he counts his blessings that the bloodied bodies are not those of his friends. Still, not his preferred way to spend his evening. _

_The woman is facedown, body unnaturally twisted on its side and arms pale against the moonlit dirt, and when Stiles kneels by her to feel for her pulse and ends up with a hand smeared with blood, the panic sets in. Her throat is slit, too wide to be a knife's work, too jagged to be anything but a claw, and when Stiles frantically tells this to his father, he spends five minutes being soothed and reassured that it's still unsure who and what killed her. It falls a little flat when Stiles has seen this sort of crime before, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless._

_It's May, and he really doesn't need the blanket draped around his shoulders courtesy of the EMTs who ushered to coddle him after they arrived with the ambulance to carry away Jane Doe. It's rattling, sure, but Stiles has seen worse. The fact that this is his reality is sad, and probably mildly concerning._

_The police are here too, to check all their bases and the evidence, and probably check on the sheriff's son and his mental state as well. Stiles takes it all in stride, sitting on the fender of the police car parked on the curb playing with the hem of the fleece blanket while the emergency lights flash red and blue into the dark neighborhood and officers bustle around him, hardly noticing his dark shape amid all the hustle that is starting the paperwork and dealing with forensics that is murder._

_He texts Scott about it as the police trample around the backyard while the radios rustle with incoming updates, just something to recap the night like __murder in my yard, nbd_. And then the one thing that could possibly make this night worse comes strolling out of the shadows wearing a leather jacket, and Stiles groans under his breath. 

_It's Peter, the leather jacket draped over his shoulders shining in the moonlight, and his eyes sweep over the scene of muttering cops and flashing ambulance lights with an interested cock of his eyebrow. Of course he's interested. This sort of incident is right up one's alley when murder is their hobby. Stiles shrinks into his blanket, trying his best to disperse into the shadows until he's no longer visible, but then Peter's eyes fall right on him through the darkness and his cover is blown. Just what Stiles needs tonight after the traumatic event of discovering a body. Chatting with Peter._

_"Do you have some sort of sick internal murder radar or is it a hobby for you to peruse through neighborhoods like this looking for incidents?" Stiles says once Peter steps close enough. _

_"It's flattering how you think that as a killer, I've been granted the ability to find killings by happy accident," he murmurs, gesturing to the crime scene as the police tape is rolled out. "What happened?"_

_"Watch the news if you're interested," Stiles says. Seeing Peter on any given night irks him; seeing him on the night of a murder is going to give him nightmares. He looks up from where he's teasing the hem of his blanket into frayed threads and sees Peter smiling at him. "You're being creepy. Not that that's anything new. Are you here for the reason I think you're here?"_

_"Why do you think?"_

_Stiles purses his lips, not in the mood for indulging in Peter's obvious questions. He nudges his thumb accusatorially at the murder scene. _

_"You killed her," he ticks off the options on his fingers. "You're in cahoots with whoever killed her. You're thirsty for her blood. Or you're here at this crime scene by accident and you're actually looking for small kids to prey on and eat."_

_Peter's grin is not wiped from his face. If anything, it cements in place, and he tips his head back to the moon to laugh, the light licking at his cheeks._

_"Very imaginative," Peter murmurs, sounding appreciative of the laugh Stiles just gave him. "Did you discover the body?"_

_"Wouldn't you like to know," Stiles grumbles, not in the mood to hash out the sordid details of how he'd gently rolled her over and felt his heart lodge in his throat at the sight of her bloodied clothes, sticky in the moonlight. "I'm not exactly in the mood to chat about a horrifying murder, thanks."_

_Peter tuts. "Calm down, you've seen something like this before."_

_"I'm so sorry if my sheer terror is inconveniencing you," Stiles seethes. Honestly, it couldn't get more disrespectful than this. The body's still warm and Stiles still feels the phantom dampness of her blood on his hands as he tried to compress her wound while keeping his panicking at bay._

_He rubs at his arms in a vain attempt to massage the tension out of his body. Spending the evening camped out in from of the television with a bowl full of mixed nuts would have been so much easier, if not more boring. Not that Stiles needs the excitement in his life. He needs the exact opposite alongside a long, uninterrupted nap that lasts approximately thirty-two hours, and instead the universe decides to take a dump on his head because he hasn't been scared for his life in the last few weeks. Maybe some people are just fate's chew toy._

_"What are you so nervous about?" Peter asks him like he's unimpressed with Stiles' antics. Stiles glares, arching his head to the backyard to see if any police officers are taking note of the fact that Stiles is being accosted by a mysterious man that's appeared on the scene of a gnarly crime. Naturally, none of them are._

_"Oh, I don't know," Stiles mutters. "The dead body comes to mind."_

_Peter rolls his eyes, like Stiles is weak and malnourished and overreacting, and Stiles purposefully ignores him. He stares ahead at where the car headlights are flashing red on the pavement, an easy distraction to focus on before Peter slides closer._

_"You look like you need some," he seems to ponder his choice of words carefully, "__relaxation_."

_Stiles furrows his eyebrows, his attention pulled away from the lights. "What exactly are you offering, Bad Touch?"_

_Peter takes a slow step forward and doesn't bother to address Stiles' question or his newfound nickname. "All I'm saying," he says, perfectly innocent, "is that you look horribly stressed."_

_"No," Stiles cuts in, pulling the blanket he doesn't need tightly around his shoulders. "Normal teenagers are stressed. Normal teenagers have tests and school dances. I have all of that plus murders, werewolves, and pretty much every supernatural character from the Grimm books to deal with—as in I wouldn't even be surprised if Rumpelstiltskin would come hopping out of that bush over there." He points an accusing finger at the ragged hedge scaling the side of his house as if it's done him a personal wrong. "I'm so beyond stressed it's a miracle I'm still here when I could be in Hawaii on a beach wearing a grass skirt right now."_

_He heaves an enormous sigh that shakes his whole rib cage once he's finished, listening to the distant murmur of police officers rather than focusing on Peter's intense gaze pivoted directly on him. He looks down at his feet and notices the polished tips of Peter's shoes slide closer, almost imperceptibly so._

_"Do you know what the best form of tension relief is, Stiles?"_

_Well, this conversation is turning odd. Stiles can think of quite a few—massages from surprisingly strong old Asian women, long yoga sessions, stress balls, unapologetically wolfing down an entire carton of ice cream with no spoon necessary—but Peter's voice is low and dripping with suggestion in a way that has Stiles certain that all of his ideas are off the mark._

_"Probably," he begrudgingly admits, averting Peter's eyes. "I'm not sure I want to know. And if you tell me anyway I __am_ sure I won't be wanting it from you."

_Peter chuckles. "Sex."_

_"Yup, there's what I didn't want to know," Stiles says, suddenly feeling a fair bit hotter even though the night is nippier than most. He looks fixedly at the tree over Peter's shoulder rather than directly in his eyes and pretends he is somewhere where this conversation isn't._

_"Let's have sex," Peter says with absolutely no regard for Stiles' discomfort._

_He says it very easily, like the idea is simple and reasonable, when it actually makes most of Stiles' worst plans feel better about themselves. Stiles huffs out a dry laugh. "I can think of a million reasons as to why that's the worst idea ever."_

_"Why?" Peter asks, and Stiles sputters. "It's not like you're attracted to me. It's not like I'll fuck you and you'll fall in love with me."_

_"Um," Stiles says, lost for words, and waits the obligatory few seconds for Chris Hansen and company to come swooping in. He doesn't. "I'm concerned for your sense of humor."_

_Peter says nothing. He arches an eyebrow carefully, waiting for Stiles to let the defense mechanism of his jokes sizzle and wither. Stiles is more than just concerned now, and draws the blanket over his shoulders like a protective shell shielding him from these advances._

_"Haha," is his dry response. "No. No. Just—no. Not even if I end up being a fifty-year-old virgin."_

_Peter tsks, just something quiet and unimpressed with Stiles' rejections, and leans in to push aside the scratchy fleece blanket and snake his hand inside Stiles' jeans. Stiles goes rigid because oh my god, that's a hand. A hand on his cock. A hand circling and dragging slowly up his cock. Stiles feels the gasp slip from his mouth like it's being pulled from his throat by a string. He doesn't need to catch a glimpse at Peter's face to know he's smirking. Bastard._

_"What were you saying?" Peter murmurs, right by his ear, and then his hold on Stiles' dick tightens and pumps downward, his fingers paying special attention to the head of his cock before sliding smoothly back up. It's foul play, Stiles is sure, except the referee is too busy to throw down the red flag, and then Peter pumps downward with a strong grip and Stiles feels his restraint slip because he's a desperate teenage boy with no self-control._

_He comes embarrassingly fast, all the tension wound tightly around his spine spilling from him in one broken cry, and then the fingers on his cock are slipping away and Stiles is left with nothing but the residual shock and fierce waves of an orgasm._

_"Think about it," Peter says, brushing his hands off on his pants, all nonchalance and private smiles, and Stiles feels like he's just been struck over the head with an anvil._

_He thinks about it._

* * *

The dorm room is unspeakably small, musty, and smells nothing like home.

It fits two beds crammed up against the wall, a wardrobe with a crooked leg Scott is using his biology textbook for to keep upright, a mini fridge full of booze, a tiny countertop with a sink that is probably masquerading as the kitchen, and a bathroom that approximately half of Stiles can successfully fit into. Peter would look good pushing him against every surface.

And there they are, the thoughts that pop up intermittently and make Stiles want to jam his iPod earbuds in his ear and blast Weezer. He's not fucking heartbroken. If anything, he's angry, especially at his brain and the way it's apparently even hard wired to supply images of Peter sweaty and orgasmic whenever Stiles masturbates in the shower. It's like a trying to program someone off speed dial but he doesn't remember how to operate his phone.

He's grumpy too, and probably frumpy as well if the state of his clothes are any indication. Scott keeps giving him looks, looks like he knows, and Stiles doesn't even want to tell him because the idea of hearing the words out loud makes him cringe. It's like when he was in high school trying to brainstorm for an essay, the words all wrong and the ideas jumbled. Not that there is a right, organized way to say "my judgment in lovers lapsed and I picked one who probably fantasized about killing me and the entire town too."

He sets down the box he's holding, full of ratty pillowcases and worn picture frames. A new start is what he needs. Surely college will provide that, and in a few months life will be happy again, full of good decisions and dorm room parties. Go find yourself a frat boy, Peter had so generously advised. They'll be gagging for it, he had said. Stiles is looking forward to it.

So here's his new start, in the shape of a smaller living space, paper thin walls, and a daily schedule of running across an unfamiliar campus, and a new him, complete with a slightly more bitter view of the world. At least he's no longer in danger of running into Peter at the supermarket and catching his eyes over the frozen pizzas, and at least he's still got Scott with him, even if he comes with concerned glances when he thinks Stiles isn't looking. Things couldn't be better.

Stiles looks over his shoulder and waits to see his father thumping up the stairs with yet more boxes, instead finding a handful of giggling college students lugging hampers up on their hips into the room across the hall. They look like fun, the kind of friends Stiles could stand to have, so he closes the door before they notice him.

* * *

For a while, anger feels the best out of all of the emotions clawing their way out of his brain.

Anger feels really good, actually. Anger doesn't disillusion him like affection or happiness did. Anger knows perfectly well that what he and Peter had was never anything more or anything less than what he originally agreed to, and anger keeps him from wanting to fill up his gas tank to drive back out into the city to Peter's place and knock uninvited on his door. Anger is his new best friend.

After the anger comes the name calling, revenge's slightly more mature older sibling, and after that comes homework. And that's enough stress to drown out everything from unfinished emotional business to the kind of bitterness that makes him consider using hoodoo to ease his conscience.

Peter was like a toxic substance, the sort of poison he had to sweat out of his system. Never would Stiles look back and label that monstrosity as a relationship, because Stiles is a firm believer of the feet-on-the-ground mentality. There was sex, and then there wasn't. Surely there'll be new sex soon, sex with strangers and handsome college kids, and then Peter will finally have the decency to crawl out of his dreams and his thoughts.

"So, um," Scott says. He's sitting by the desk, tipping left and right in the creaking swivel chair, while Stiles stays sprawled over the bed trying to drown out the sound of what he's pretty sure is Taylor Swift bleeding through the wall next door while he's trying to focus on studying. His eyes are running over the words without ever reading them, the same sentences boring into his eyes as he tries to restart paragraphs and will his concentration to try harder. "When is Peter coming?"

He asks it apprehensively, almost like he already knows the answer. Stiles looks up from his scrawled notes and feels Peter's name hit him like a bucket of cold water chattering his teeth. He can't deny Scott, not when he's looking at him with gentle eyes that are wordlessly telling him he doesn't have to share anything he's not comfortable talking about. Stiles simultaneously hates and adores that particular character trait.

"Yeah, we're not," Stiles wishes there was something he could hold onto just to occupy his nervous fingers, the pages of his notebook too thin. "We're not doing that anymore."

He avoids Scott's eyes and waits with his breath lodged in his throat for the inevitable questions. _What happened? Are you okay? Did he hurt you?_

"Oh," is what Scott ends up saying softly, probably picking up on all of Stiles' thoughts. "How come?"

"Well," he thinks about it, and all the answers he could respond with, most of them probably true. Scott probably knows anyway. "College, and... you know."

Scott nods slowly with an apologetic smile and lets it drop, Stiles mildly disappointed that Scott didn't persist if only to get the weight of the truth off his shoulders. What would he have even said if Scott had touched his forearm in the way Stiles can never deny and asked for honesty? That Peter's the same vengeful villain that everyone warned him he was? That he'd rather kill off Stiles' best friend instead of invest time and energy into becoming an actual three-dimensional human being?

The music is pulsing through the wall now, a truly terrible wailing from the sophomore girl next door that knows nothing of dorm room etiquette, and it's making Stiles' head hurt. He looks up and Scott's still looking at him, just a soft glance that isn't demanding any more answers. He remembers their conversation from weeks ago, how Scott had told him he was worried about Stiles getting hurt and how Stiles had dismissed it. There's an unspoken _told you so_ in the air, one Stiles' own brain is singsonging. He feels incredibly stupid. He feels duped.

He gets up, feeling slightly jittery and his chest a little tighter, and he moves to grab his backpack from where he dropped it by the door. He opens it up, pushing aside notebooks and scattered pens to feel for the bottom. He scrapes the floor, nothing but gathered crumbs and bit of paper, and realizes with lead in his stomach that his inhaler is just another piece of collateral damage that Peter got custody of.

Alongside his sanity, probably.

* * *

There's a cute guy in Stiles' literature lecture, messy mop of blonde hair and bright eyes that look perpetually sun-kissed even under the harsh lighting of classroom fluorescents, and it takes four days of class for Stiles to pick up on the covert stares he's been throwing him.

It takes him another four to come up to Stiles, sliding up to his desk after class is dismissed and throwing a breezy, very white smile in his face. He's very cute, something in his shy grins oddly endearing.

"I hope this isn't too forward or that I was getting the wrong vibe from you," the boy says as everyone else files out the classroom around them, one hand on the back of his neck like he's charming and sheepish all at once. "But maybe we could go out sometime?"

He really does have a nice smile, Stiles thinks. All bright teeth and genuine interest, like he actually cares about what Stiles has to say, and all Stiles can think of is _I want to corrupt you and kiss you so hard I leave bruises_ when this nice boy is asking him for a date. The thought hits him like a snowball to the head, this one definitely part ice, and he tries to shake it off. He's screwed in the head.

Oh, he realizes, staring right into the boy's innocent face. So that's how Peter got as fucked up as he is.

He says no.

* * *

The good thing about living in the dorms? Parties. Parties with alcohol. Parties with so much alcohol Stiles is trying to drum up the wittiest pick up line in his repertoire to use on everybody in the room, ranging from the guy making eyes at him to the lamp in the corner.

Stiles doesn't know the name of a single soul in this entire dorm room, about two floors over his and Scott's humble abode, and isn't even entirely sure how he got invited. Then again, as he looks around and gets a good look at the array of girls in pleather shrieking karaoke by the drinks and the boys grinding up on inanimate objects, Stiles figures this kind of party definitely isn't the type to turn anyone away at the door. He looks over and feels hungry eyes on him from the corner again.

The guy in question by the corner is fairly hot considering he's already shirtless, and in the blur of Stiles' drunken vision, looks vaguely like a fresh out of the box life-sized version of a Ken doll—but really, a large plant could catch Stiles' interest right now. He's so over it, so very over all of it, so over the persistent memory of Peter's fingers dancing up his thighs, and he feels the aching need to prove it to a room full of clumsily dancing strangers.

He downs the last of the vodka shot in his hand, oddly pink and quite tropical in his mouth right before it runs down his throat like gasoline, and there come Peter's words floating back to the surface.

_Frat boys will be gagging for a mouth like yours,_ he had said. _I don't care if you fuck other guys_ is what he might as well have said after he had cracked a joke at the idea of minding if Stiles becomes a freshman lothario and turns his dorm room into a twenty-four-seven brothel. Such a bastard.

But he seems to have found the frat boy who will be gagging for it, and that's exactly what he needs to get his revenge and seal the prophecy, so he trots up to him with minimal stumbling and steadies himself on the wall as a picture of natural nonchalance. He's drunk thanks to all the tequila and vodka, past the point of harmlessly tipsy but not yet at the point where he thinks passing out in the bathtub is a good idea. In Stiles' opinion, it's the perfect level of intoxication for shameless flirting.

"Nice shirt," he says, and right, he's shirtless. It seems to work anyway, though, because the pretty boy is laughing and tilting his body towards him. He looks nothing like Peter, tanned skin from head to toe and sharp green eyes like he spends his free time lifeguarding at the beach or catching waves, and that's exactly what Stiles needs right now. The anti-Peter. Someone without facial hair who gets squeamish around blood will probably do the trick.

"Thanks," the boy says, deep laughter tumbling out his throat. "You're new here, right? I would've remembered your face."

Stiles resists the urge to pump his fist into the air because hook, line and sinker, he's got himself a live one. "1988 called, it wants its pickup line back," Stiles says with a wink that was all the alcohol's doing. "I'm a freshman."

"You're cute," pretty boy says, clearly intrigued by Stiles' mouth if nothing else if the way he keeps openly staring is any indication, so Stiles cuts the small talk.

"I know," he says with a cheeky grin, and then leans in closer. "Wanna get naked in the bathroom?"

Pretty boy's eyes flash, probably a blend of arousal and surprise that Stiles takes as a yes. It's all in the charm of the crooked smile, he thinks, and then the boy is grabbing him by the elbow and guiding him to the bathroom. Helpful, he thinks, because Stiles probably would've led them both to the refrigerator and pulled his pants down.

He's being ushered into a bathroom before he can blink, people squeezing in too tightly around him as they dance and stumble, and a relieving wave of silence engulfs him as he makes it to the tiny bathroom. The noise is muted here, the door closed and locked as Stiles' companion slips inside after him. Perfect, great, now to the promise to get naked.

"Yeah, let's do this," the boy says, clearly pumped, and Stiles drags him in by the belt. His lips are sugary like he's been licking off the rim of tequila glasses, and Stiles is really, really not interested in kissing him.

A knock on the door sounds a moment later, loud and intrusive, someone whining about needing a piss. Stiles has no sympathy for any full-bladdered fellow at the moment.

"Fuck off!" Pretty boy yells at the door, mumbled swears filtering through a second later. He turns back to Stiles, unabashedly eager. "How about a blowjob, yeah?"

There's a thumb rubbing on Stiles' lower lip, wiping off the shine of alcohol, and Stiles vaguely registers the word _blowjob_ making it through his ear. God yes.

"You first," Stiles says, and then the boy is cursing about Stiles' mouth, his body, how he's hard through his jeans, and Stiles just nods through it all. Who cares what this kid has to say? All Stiles wants to know is what else that tongue can do.

The boy pushes him against the counter, Stiles' eyes finding a neat selection of deodorant and hair ties by the sink. He has a brief moment of wavering confusion poke through the swamp of inebriation that set up camp in his mind where he wonders whose bathroom he's in, or what that boy's name even is, and then the moment gives way for more important things, like hands on his waist. The boy's fingers land in the curve of his hipbones, right where Peter would hold him, right where the bruises would turn purple, and Stiles pushes his hands away.

"Not there," he mumbles, and the boy doesn't even hear him over the thump of the bass from outside. He maneuvers Stiles against the counter and sinks to his knees, the question and answer portion of the evening over.

The sink is jammed into the small of his back, the hands fumbling with his jeans insistently pushing him into place. The music is loud, too loud even through the bathroom door, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut to block out the noise.

"God yes," the boy on his knees is saying, his hands tossing aside Stiles' belt. "Can't wait to suck you off. Can't wait to have you suck _me_ off, all cause of your damn mouth."

Stiles smiles lazily and twines his hands into the boy's hair—a little greasy for his liking—and pulls him to his erection. Serves Peter right, after all he's put him through. Turns out he wasn't wrong about Stiles' mouth being the hottest attraction in town.

"Yeah," Stiles slurs back, the only word he can manage to pull from his word bank. It seems to be enough for his companion, who chortles at just how drunk Stiles is as he hiccups. Vodka, now there's a friend Stiles can always trust.

His pants are off now, pooled around his ankles, and his boxers are next to go. His mind wanders, remembering the last time he had vodka. Peter's apartment, sprawled on the cool floor, Peter's lap warm like the beach under his head. He remembers laughing, the room being too hot.

A rough hand cups him through his boxers, the touch foreign, but it still runs through Stiles like a spark. He pulls on pretty boy's hair.

Peter, he thinks, Peter, Peter, Peter, that same lazy smile still curving his lips. He's crazy for his name, even how it feels like coming just circling through his mind.

The hand feeling him harden through his underwear slides to an abrupt stop, Stiles looking down at the furrowed eyebrows kneeled between his legs.

"Who's Peter?" the boy asks. "You don't have a boyfriend, do you?"

He's sure he wasn't saying that out loud. Positively. He turns a little pink at the idea and shakes his head, and that was a big mistake, because the alcohol seems to rattle in his brain and push the nausea forth. "Not even close." He frowns hard, because how did Peter get involved? It's all anyone ever wants to talk about, over and over until Stiles thinks getting over his fuck buddy is impossible, the kind of feat only accomplishable in the movies. "How do you know about Peter?"

Pretty boy's eyebrows get more perplexed by the second. "You just said his name."

"What?" Stiles laughs, laughs so hard he hits the back of his head on the mirror. The pink on his cheeks persists, spreading to his ears. "I didn't. I wouldn't." He raises his head, eyes scanning the room from the tacky shower curtain pattern to the rug by the toilet that's been slid out of place by his new friend's knees. "He's not here, is he?"

"Fuck if I know," he's no longer on his knees now, indignantly rising to his feet. "Why, is he big?"

"Oh, yeah," Stiles heaves through a sigh. "Bit of a tummy, but—damn, he's strong."

Probably not what pretty boy wanted to hear, Stiles realizes a moment later as a flash of panic flits over his eyes. Stiles tries to grab him by the arm and reel him back in, just now noticing how neglected his cock has become, and the boy twists his arm free of Stiles' grip.

"I don't want to get involved in something complicated, man," the guy says, and Stiles tries to shake his head to convince him to stay even as the room starts shaking again. He doesn't look as cute anymore, too panicked to look good wrapped around Stiles' dick.

"It's fine, it's fine," Stiles tells him, but he's already slipping out the door, Stiles' drunken babbling clearly not persuading him to stay.

The door closes with a finality a second later, briefly letting in the sounds of happy laughter and loud music from the other room. He realizes then that he's in a foreign bathroom with his pants pooled around his ankles, and fiercely humiliated and dizzy to boot, he falls onto the toilet seat to ground himself. He was promised college would be nicer.

And god knows how it would be if Peter was here. If it had all gone down like Stiles had tentatively suggested that day in Peter's apartment with all that wine. Maybe if Peter hadn't been so stubborn, they'd be here together, naked on Stiles' bed trying to suck marks into each other's skin—Peter more successfully than Stiles. Maybe stubborn isn't the right word. Maybe _invested_, or even interested. Maybe Stiles wasn't the first boy Peter had played around with for shits and giggles.

So here he is, alone on a toilet in a dorm room he doesn't belong in, no blowjob the wiser. This is probably a new personal low.

A soft knock on the door breaks Stiles out of his thoughts. A voice, muffled by the door, speaks up a moment later. "Stiles?"

It's Scott, thank god, and Stiles watches as the door opens a sliver and Scott's face pokes through. He slips inside and shuts the door behind him, kneeling by the toilet.

"I need help," he says morosely, "getting my pants up."

"It's okay," Scott is saying, always helpful, always kind. Stiles reaches out to pet him on the head as a dry sob breaks through his mouth. This is the lowest of the low, so low he's passed the gutter, so low he's passed the earth's crust and is now swimming uncertainly in lava. Scott brings him to his feet and buttons his pants up for him, and then he's slinging Stiles' arm over his shoulder and steadying him on his way out.

The world stumbles underneath him, the tequila blurring the floor, and Stiles clutches onto Scott as his knees buckle. He's pretty sure if the blowjob had been successful, he would have passed out on the toilet and woken up with a sandy mouth and a construction site drilling in his brain in a bathroom he didn't recognize. Finding his way back to his room definitely wouldn't have been an option, not with the way the floor keeps trying to magnetically pull him down.

"You're not really yourself these days," Scott says, and he sounds sad and worried and somehow distant as the ringing in Stiles' ears mutes out the rest of the noise as Scott lugs him across the loud party. People are jumping, grinding, bouncing together and Stiles feels like all of Beacon Hills has squeezed between him and the door out.

"I know," Stiles tells him miserably, but the words get swallowed up by laughing partygoers and remixed dance songs. He lets his eyes droop shut.

And then all he remembers is falling on something soft, something that feels like his unmade bed and smells like the cheesy chips he ate before lunch that now make his drunken body want to vomit as he presses his nose into his pillow.

_Look at me now_, he wants to scream with confidence off the rooftops, but he's afraid people would actually look.

* * *

He deletes Peter out of his phone after that, still hungover and spending his Monday coddled in bed while Scott picks up greasy Mexican for him. It feels a little heavier than it should as he scrolls down to the _delete_ button in his contacts considering he's not exactly going to miss Peter's late night booty call text messages, but it feels final nonetheless. Like with his number vanished from his contacts, Peter could fall off the face of the earth and he'd never know. Or get killed in his sleep, which is the likelier option.

He sweeps through a week's worth of text messages despite the sirens warning him away before he pushes them all into cyberspace trash, his eyes catching on messages like "my mouth is missing you in it" and "get some rest, I'm planning on wrecking you tomorrow ;)"

Winky faces, for god's sake. Stiles doesn't know anybody else who can make winky faces work. With Peter they look suggestive and flirty and even a little naughty, probably endearing in a way that nobody else would agree with Stiles on. Everybody else using winky faces instantly turns into an eleven-year-old who's arguably too young to have their own phone.

It's strange, because Stiles doesn't think anybody else has received text messages from Peter with any kind of decorative faces attached. Actually, he's pretty sure they haven't received texts from Peter at all. Maybe it was something Peter reserved for him, something private just like the marks on his thigh hidden from the rest of the world. For fuck buddies, they sure had a lot of private things exclusive to them, Stiles thinks, and then as a tiny flicker of hope lights up in his brain, he smashes it down.

So what if Peter saw him as more and decided to push aside his feelings for the sake of his evil reputation? So what if he was too proud to say what he was really thinking, like that he was jealous and interested and becoming prey to emotions, and thought indulging in such human things would make him weak? In the end, Stiles didn't win out. He came in as runner-up to Peter's plans to become the Alpha and take over the world and be crowned the king of hell, and that's what actually matters.

He presses delete and flings his phone across the bed. He could get the number back, text Derek asking for it or track it down online, but he won't. He won't.

* * *

Stiles is wearing a pair of pajamas that haven't seen soap in weeks and has mustard stains dribbled down his shirt when two weeks into freshmen year, a knock raps on his dorm room door.

He looks down at himself and the state his habitat has fallen into, notes scattered on the floor and empty cans of soda starting an army on his desk. This is the sad result of higher education, he thinks, or possibly the result of misguided fuck buddies. There's no way he's letting anyone but Scott see him this way, not while others still believe the illusion that he's a real boy who knows how to shower.

The knocking stops, only to continue insistently a minute later. Maybe if Stiles stays very quiet, he'll be left in peace with his mountain of homework.

"Scott?" a familiar voice calls through the door, and Stiles perks up.

He gets up, brushing the crumbs off his lap to peer through the peep hole, and yup, in all of his leather jacket glory is Derek, face grim and hands stuffed in his pockets. Stiles opens the door and tries not to notice the patronizing arch of Derek's eyebrow as he gives Stiles' disheveled pajama fashion a onceover.

"Hey," Stiles says. "Scott's not here right now."

Derek shrugs, just a tiny lift of his shoulders. "Mind if I come in?"

Stiles looks over his shoulder at the cluttered mess his room is, boxers on the floor and papers scattered on the desk, and figures might as well. He moves aside from the threshold and lets Derek step inside.

"Guess not," he says, and closes the door behind him as Derek looks around with a few glances here and there. There's something reserved in his step, a small rigidness to his posture, and it only takes one pointed look directly at Stiles for Stiles to figure out why. He frowns.

"So you heard," Stiles says dryly. "Big news in the Hale Family Newsletter or what?"

Derek shrugs with his hands lodged in his pockets, quite ambiguously, like that's the extent of how involved he wants to get.

"He told me," Derek says. His eyes are watching Stiles carefully, like there's something on his face. It's probably emotion, but there's a good chance that it's mustard as well.

"Well?" Stiles dwells when his gaze doesn't relent. "How is he?"

He doesn't care, he doesn't care, he so does not care. He bites on his lip to refrain from adding that bit even though it itches insistently at his tongue. Derek shrugs again.

"Like Peter," Derek tells him.

"Good," Stiles grits out with a laugh that even grates on his own nerves. "Cause I was imagining him drowning in his own tears because he lost the hottest thing he ever had."

It falls a little flat when his voice sounds more bitter, wistful, and just jaded enough to rival an old woman's, rather than jovial and snarky. Was his wit another thing he accidentally left behind in Peter's apartment?

"He's not exactly a big sharer," Derek says. "So if you're looking for answers, you should probably talk to him."

"No way," Stiles says much too quickly. Derek's eyebrows rise with the barest hint of interest, and now Stiles feels the obligation to unload his worries onto Derek Hale of all people. "It's nothing."

"You going to tell me what happened?" It's fairly gentle considering Derek is the one speaking, but for a question, it sounds an awful lot like a demand. Seems that particular trait runs in the family.

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Not really."

"Okay, fine," Stiles says through a frustrated sigh. "He's a fucking psychopath, did you know that? All he cares about is becoming a big bad alpha, and whatever I was along the way was slim pickings to the prize he really wants."

He feels the strong urge to sit down and hold onto something solid, but under Derek's unwavering gaze, he holds his ground and stays on his feet. He's a bit too sober for this conversation, but it's only four in the afternoon and it's probably too early to sneak the booze he has hidden under his bed away from his RA's eyes into the daylight.

"He said that?"

"He didn't have to," Stiles says. Derek's eyebrows furrow, unconvinced, and Stiles scowls. "Trust me."

"I believe you," Derek says, even if his eyebrows and fists in his leather jacket say differently. "You left?"

"No, I went to college," Stiles says hotly. "I just didn't ask him to come visit."

It's a very neat way of looking at it, similar to the condensed version of half-truths he tells Scott. Except for the bit where he had asked him to come visit, and Peter had laughed it off. Stiles refrains from adding that bit for the sake of his own dignity.

"I told him you would," Derek says. His eyes travel away from Stiles' face, falling on the piles of clothing on the floor and the scattered homework on Stiles' unmade bed. His eyes stop on the upturned bottle of Ibuprofen and tall glass of water on his nightstand, Stiles' homemade hangover remedies. "Leave, that is."

Stiles blinks, and Derek's attention falls back to him. "Why are you saying that like he's the one who drew the short stick in all of this and I just snubbed him?" Stiles asks, drawing himself up. It makes him wonder what Derek's not telling him, what version of this story Peter is blabbing all over town. He doesn't seem like the type to gossip about his sex escapades, much less his feelings, but Derek's statement is heavy with too much subtext. "_I'm_ the one who drew the short stick. My stick is so short I have a fucking toothpick. No, I have that tiny piece of lead that breaks off from a pencil. That is how short my stick is."

Derek seems taken aback at that, raising his eyebrows. Stiles doesn't even want to have this conversation, doesn't want to worry about rehashing the things he spent most of last night and a lot of vodka on trying to forget. "Is that so?"

"I offered that we continue this—this _thing_," Stiles says, still unsure as his tongue tries to wrap around a word that'll properly describe it. He can't find one. "He said no." He crosses his arms. "I don't know what he's been telling you, but he's not the poor rejected soul in all this. He knows exactly where to find me."

"He didn't tell me anything," Derek says. Stiles wishes he would say more, even if it's judgment. He could probably really use someone snapping him out of his funk, someone to grab him by the shoulders and slowly tell him that he's mooning over Peter Hale.

"Oh," Stiles deflates a little. Of course he didn't. Of course Peter wouldn't share. Peter's not as human as Stiles is always pretending he is. He has such bad taste in men. "I'm not really surprised."

Derek's giving him an odd look now, too scrutinizing to be comfortable. "You really asked him to visit?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. He waits for the laughter because ha, ha, Stiles tried to rehabilitate a cold-blooded murderer like some twisted version of _Pretty Woman_. Derek doesn't laugh.

"And he said no?"

"Yeah? Is that surprising?"

Derek considers it. "Actually, yes," he says after a moment's pause.

Stiles scoffs. "Why, because he's such a big softie? Because I turned him into a giant Carebear?"

Derek smiles this time, directing it at the floor. Stiles wishes he was in on the big secret, on all the thoughts Derek is locking away inside his brain for the greater good. Or maybe just to keep Stiles in suspense. Maybe it amuses him to watch a disaster unfold when it doesn't involve his own pain for once.

"Tell Scott I stopped by," Derek says, already headed for the door. Stiles tries to reel him back in, taking a step after him, but Derek seems to have no interest in revealing whatever he knows. Is Peter secretly mourning Stiles and has shut himself away in his apartment? Does he miss him? Does he actually have a working, beating heart?

Derek shares nothing. He's being so cryptic, as usual. Stiles watches him close the door behind him, the gears clearly turning behind his eyes and completely uninterested in sharing. Stiles hates the whole fucking family.

* * *

Stiles parks the jeep and listens to its answering whine, long and croaky, as the engine settles. He needs a new car. Maybe he needs a whole new look, starting with a new haircut and new clothes. Maybe he should just bite the bullet and buy a leather jacket already.

"What if I shaved all my hair off again?" Stiles suggests, running a hand through the untamed strands by his forehead. "Once finals come around I probably shouldn't have anything on my head long enough to tear out in sheer frustration."

_Nothing for Peter's hands to hold onto, nothing to use as leverage while there's a mouth hollowed around his dick_. Yeah, a haircut might be in order.

"That'd be weird," Scott tells him. "You haven't had hair that short since… sophomore year."

"I miss my buzzcut," Stiles says, and runs his hand through his hair, ruffling the strands. It's too long for comfort now, too much maintenance when he's busy throwing himself into procrastinating his schoolwork and wasting his life on the internet. He turns to Scott. "So what's on the agenda tonight?"

"I have plans," Scott says vaguely, something suspicious in his voice as he waves casually at the air while he holds open the dormitory door for Stiles.

"Oh, that's fine," Stiles says. "I have a cup of noodles and season two of One Tree Hill calling my name."

Scott stops in his tracks. "No, I mean," he pauses. "I have plans for you."

Well, that's concerning. Stiles freezes and considers the possibilities. Fun day at the carnival? Long marathon at the movies alone to wallow in the misery of his over-buttered popcorn?

Scott's face breaks out in a happy grin, like he's just managed to single-handedly fix a problem. Stiles feels something that is probably incoming nausea and nearly trips over the stairs they're walking up.

"What did you do?" Stiles asks, paralyzed.

"I talked to Peter," Scott says, biting down on his lower lip to contain his bliss at the idea of bettering Stiles' life. It's so, so sweet and simultaneously so, so wrong, and that's probably what Stiles gets for lying to his best friend. "And told him how... upset you've been. And he agreed to come out here and talk."

Scott looks so proud, reaching out to squeeze Stiles' shoulder like a dad handing out allowance, and Stiles almost can't bring himself to burst his bubble of satisfaction up until he remembers that Peter is coming here to see Stiles face to face when Stiles still can't even think about his name without tasting regret and bad decisions on his tongue.

"Oh my god," Stiles desperately latches onto tufts of his own hair. "Here, coming _here_—when?"

Scott rolls from the balls of his feet to the tips, cheekier still. "Now. He's in there. In our dorm room."

Stiles looks over Scott's shoulder at their door, so seemingly harmless, except that Peter's sitting on the other side, and now the only place free of memories of Peter will be tainted with images of him leaning against wardrobes and rifling through Stiles' sock drawer. He can't go in there, not when he was doing a perfectly good job desensitizing himself of affairs with older men and shoving the past into the musty corner of his mind where all the cobwebs and morbid moments go to be repressed.

"I just—you seemed so down these last few weeks," Scott is saying. "And I know it's weird because—well, it's Peter—but I want you guys to work it out if you can."

He looks incredibly earnest, like he really does want to support Stiles' relationship with a man charged with murder and deception and suffering under delusions of taking-over-the-world-schemes, Pinkie and the Brain style. Stiles will not be Pinkie.

If only Scott knew, Stiles thinks quite morosely. He sees what's on the surface, what Stiles wants everyone including himself to believe, that Peter and him were in a functional, casual relationship that ended due to long distance. Except life isn't simple when it comes to Stiles, like the deities decided upon it the minute he was born—_that one, he'll be great for entertainment._

"Scott, this is—wow," Stiles says around the lump in his throat as the door stares him down. There's a man a wall away waiting for him in the other room, and yet Peter being all the way across the sea in China probably wouldn't be enough distance. "But I don't think our problems can be solved that easily."

Scott grips his other shoulder. "You have to at least try. You owe it to yourself."

Stiles owes himself a lot of things, dealing with Peter Hale not being one of them.

* * *

Scott leaves, and Stiles spends the next two minutes pacing aggressively back and forth from the soda machine to the door, wondering if what's behind it is worth the effort it'll take to open the door and step inside and face the tsunami. He considers running, just grabbing the keys in his pocket and taking a long drive, because Peter's patience is nothing if not extremely thin.

But then he's staring at the door, so seemingly innocent, and curiosity pulls at him like a hook in his chest. It's his biggest flaw, the one thing that he can't curb even when he knows it never fails to get him in trouble. In this case, trouble is Peter.

He opens the door, and everything is just as he left it. His homework stacked up on the desk and his overused mugs sitting crookedly in the sink, and Peter leaning against the fridge.

It feels a bit like a punch to the stomach seeing him. There's Peter, hip against the refrigerator handle and hands occupied with a bowl of cereal that he must've found after rifling through the cupboards unlawfully, eyes captivated by a collection of photographs of Scott and Stiles with their arms around each other on the tiny fridge resting on the countertop that takes up a fourth of the entire room, and Stiles was not ready to see him. An entire lifetime could've passed and it wouldn't have been enough separation time.

"Long time," Stiles says, and stops himself. He doesn't even know what to say, or what to ask. He feels suspended in the moment, the tension that comes with not even knowing how to carry himself weighing heavily on his shoulders. Considering that he used to spend most of his time around Peter naked head to toe, the uncertainty is almost ironic.

His instinct should probably be to show Peter straight to the door, because this can't be good, this isn't a Lifetime movie where the sentimental music starts to swell, but he watches Peter's spoon dig around in the milky bowl and feels something hit him like a lightning bolt straight to the chest. They're not about feelings, they were never about feelings or emotions, but even just watching him scoop cereal into his mouth sends him reeling.

Peter looks up when Stiles walks in and drops his keys on the countertop. He misses by a foot and a half.

"Stiles," Peter says. He says his name like something lost, like the missing memories you find years later stashed under the mattress with the dust bunnies. "This is a lovely… tuna can."

His hands sweeps over the dorm, encompassing the entire room. It's all classic snark, the snark Stiles left behind along with his trust, and that's all it takes for the anger to settle again. He lets his backpack slide off his shoulder with a loud _thud_ on the floor, Peter standing in his crammed room like he somehow belongs there, and Stiles wants nothing more than to have Scott next to him just to keep him anchored.

"Why did you agree to come here?" Stiles manages to ask levelly. "Come back for more? Missed your boy toy?"

Peter sighs, sending a look to the cereal floating in his bowl like he's waiting for it to back him up. He sets the bowl aside a second later, crossing his arms in front of his body, always on the defensive. Stiles is stuck between what he wants to say and what he's been conditioned to do, the _get out_ on his lips but the urge to touch on his hands.

"Stiles, please," Peter says on his heavy exhale, like even coming here was a step of growth for him. No, fuck that, he can do so much better than drive a few miles and eat food out of his cupboard. "Let's not be nasty."

"No, let's," Stiles says. He crosses his arms to mirror Peter. "Why are you here?"

Peter smiles, a frustratingly calm tug of his lips. "I was invited," he says. "Scott reached out to me."

"I know that," Stiles grits out. "But I didn't. And Scott doesn't know everything."

"Oh? Your best of best friends, and you're keeping secrets?"

God, Stiles really can't stand him. If only his body could get in on the memo, because his hands are itching by his sides to grab onto him. He looks good, hair combed and body slim in his unbearably tight Henley, and all Stiles wants to know is if it can get any tighter.

"Would you rather I tell him how much of a psychopath you are?"

Peter tsks, unimpressed by Stiles' antics, and he takes a step closer. The overwhelming urge to step forward as well tugs at Stiles' legs, anxious to mirror Peter, anxious to bridge the gap between them. Stiles stomps the hell out of that idea and wavers firmly on the spot.

"Sociopath is probably the word you're looking for," Peter says, and it looks like he's scanning Stiles' face for signs of—what? Fear? Slowly, he says, "You're angry."

"Yeah, I'm fucking angry," Stiles growls. "You should've known better than to come to my home."

"As I recall, I used to be quite a welcomed visitor in your home."

The jokes are not funny to Stiles. Not when he hasn't reached the point of laughing over his misguided friends with benefits fling yet, let alone talking about what happened, and Peter is already using it as ammunition to rub in Stiles' face.

"Used to," Stiles emphasizes. "Used to, as in, before you decided to use me to get to Scott."

Peter steps forward, a flash of something akin to frustration in his eyes. If he didn't want this conversation, he shouldn't have come, because he sure as hell shouldn't have expected that Stiles would leap into his arms like a lovestruck recreation of _The Notebook_. He stops right in front of Stiles, close enough to reach out and touch, and Stiles firmly holds his ground, refusing to be afraid of the man in front of him, not when he's no longer sixteen and trapped in his high school running from a madman. He's a grown-up, dammit.

"I didn't use you, Stiles," Peter says, and he sounds gravely serious, like Stiles is misunderstanding. He crowds in that much closer. "Frankly, you had nothing to do with my plans."

Stiles straightens up so he's that extra inch taller, glaring directly into Peter's face. Thank god they're the same height, not uneven by the few centimeters that would force Stiles to look up into his eyes. "Yeah, right," he scoffs, a self-deprecating grin on his face. "Your precious plan could probably benefit from my brains. I'm the best fucking thing that ever happened to you."

He stares at Peter; Peter stares back. The glare stays suspended between them like a string of electricity, both daring the other to either break the spell or up the ante. Peter apparently goes for the latter, because suddenly he's reeling Stiles in by the neck and pushing their mouths together.

Stiles' eyes widen for that moment where the world seems to crash down around him because _Peter's kissing him_, here in his dorm, just like how he was always imagining they would. Forget studying, how about endless days grinding on each other's laps while a fall breeze ruffles through the tiny windows. Peter nibbles on Stiles' lower lip, probably a challenge to kiss back, to respond, to angle their chests together and let it all go. Stiles does.

It feels a bit like coming home, that feeling in his chest when he calls up a friend he's lost touch with, their hands familiar on each other's skin as Peter backs him up into the kitchen, pushing against the fridge in the process. Stiles tries to say something about scattering magnets, something like _be careful, you gigantor_, but then Peter grabs him by his ass and tries to lift him up onto the countertop, sweeping dirty plates and used glasses aside and wiping his coherent thoughts away in the process as well, leaving nothing but _oh god, god yes_ behind. Their lips feel nearly fused together, mouths hot and demanding as if aching to make up for lost time, and Stiles can't imagine anyone ever heating up his body like this, ever needing a touch so badly.

The plates tumble into the sink as Stiles slips onto the countertop, Peter's hands roving past his jeans and under the waistband of his boxers to slide over his ass, Stiles already feeling heady and dizzy and all the things that come with being in Peter's presence. Their bodies know each other perfectly, know how to fall back into each other without missing a beat.

If Stiles had better will power, this would be the moment when he's pushing Peter away and disentangling himself from what is already a car crash seconds away from happening, because nothing's changed and their last argument is still perfectly valid. It's a shame he really doesn't have that firm of control over himself.

"I don't—I mean—" He breaks away from Peter's lips and tries to find the right words to say that this doesn't mean a thing, that this doesn't change anything, even as his hands slide up Peter's chest to his shoulders just to keep him in place. Peter's warm against him, so warm, so distractingly warm.

"Shhh," Peter murmurs on his mouth, tugging at his lower lip with his teeth, and if it's a distraction method, it's working well. Stiles wraps his legs around his hips, desperate to keep them close, to feel him hot and demanding near his body. "Put that mouth to better use."

It makes Stiles chuckle even if it should probably insult him, but that's just it, he's too used to Peter's banter to be affected anymore. They know each other pretty well for two people who are supposedly just intimate with each other's personal sausages, and Stiles thinks maybe he should mention that out loud just to watch Peter roll his eyes.

His attention gets riveted elsewhere a moment later when Peter's hand slithers down to pull up the hem of his shirt, so very much in the way, slotting himself between Stiles' legs and letting their hips press together. His jeans are in the way too, way too many obstacles and only most of them clothing, and Stiles lifts his hands up above his head to let Peter pull his shirt away before licking back into his mouth, deepening their kiss past frantic teeth and lips working together. His fingers trail slowly down Stiles' chest, always the tease, as Stiles drags his mouth away to taste the skin right in the dip of his collarbone. So familiar.

Peter's hands slide to Stiles' pants to unbutton them, straight to the goods, and Stiles feels his hips wriggle impatiently against the fabric. He bites down on Peter's shoulder to motivate him, but all it does is pull a few laughs from Peter's throat. It vibrates against Stiles' chest, lighter than before even with mountains of homework on his desk and a lack of laundered clothes in his closet, but this, this feels easy.

"I have a bed," Stiles murmurs on his neck. It feels like it's going by too fast, like when you blink and the best part of a roller coaster has passed, and he wants to remember more, savor the way Peter's body feels pressed against his.

"Really?" Peter says, his lips brushing Stiles' ear as he sucks a spot behind it. His hands find Stiles' hips, their favorite place, and nestle over the bones where his fingerprints have faded. His thumb presses the skin and Stiles moans. "Does it even fit in here?"

He snorts, Stiles slapping his ass in retaliation. It feels so familiar it almost hurts, the banter and the way Stiles' legs slot around Peter's waist like they've rehearsed it. If only it wasn't so fucking easy, this thing with Peter.

"Bring me over," Stiles demands, wrapping his arms around Peter's neck and latching on. "Fuck me already."

His choice of words seems to break something in Peter's reserve, his teeth sinking into pulse point of Stiles' neck to draw out a gasp and claim his territory before following orders. He grabs Stiles and pushes their mouths together, teeth knocking, as he lifts him from the counter and carries him to the mattress. Their bodies press together almost sinfully like this, the clothes a hazard that probably never should've been invented, Peter's jeans keeping him from feeling the heat of his tented erection.

Peter drops him on the bed, mattress croaking at the weight, and Peter crawls over to him, pushing him down onto the pillows and reacquainting himself with Stiles' neck. His tongue flattens over the curve of his shoulder, taking his time tasting him, and Stiles faintly wraps his hands into Peter's hair tilts his hips upward for more attention.

"C'mon," Stiles whines, scrambling to grab onto Peter's shirt and pull it away. Peter lets him, tossing it on the floor where it'll no longer get in between Stiles and miles of untouched skin. He lifts his legs when he feels Peter starts to pull his jeans down, ready to salute them goodbye as they're tugged off his ankles before Peter leans in to nip at his ear, mouth warm on his skin.

"You're going to turn around for me," Peter tells him, Stiles nodding along helplessly. "And let me give your pretty ass the attention it deserves."

Well, fuck, fuck, fuck, Stiles is gone for. He doesn't want to leave this bed, not for class, not for food, and certainly not to find himself a real boyfriend. Who needs real boyfriends when he has a man who whispers compliments about his ass in his ear? That's all he really needs.

He follows instructions, rolling over and stealing glances over his shoulders. This is the bit he doesn't want to forget, the way Peter's eyes go black from dilating just looking at the curve of Stiles' naked back, the moles on his skin. Warm palms drag down his spine, his touch firm like unspoken promises to take care of him, and then he pulls his boxers down to his thighs, fingers cupping his ass. Stiles feels his chest heat up, his lungs work faster, Peter's index finger trailing lines down to the back of his thighs.

"Give me your wrists," Peter says, and when Stiles holds his arms out, he grips them both in one hand, fingers circling around his wrists and holding them captive over his head. It sends a fresh rush through Stiles' bloodstream, wrists in a firm hold, and oddly enough, he feels perfectly safe.

He looks over his shoulder, craning his neck even as it strains his muscles, just to get a look at Peter between his legs, hands running over the back of his thighs as he toes off his own pants and Stiles vaguely registers the sound of rustling fabric as he kicks them aside with his underwear. They're naked, he's _naked_, and for a second it feels like the first time they ever touched each other like this, Stiles vulnerable and inexplicably small in his own skin. Every touch feels magnified, like this is what Stiles' body was exclusively waiting for, and he lets his eyes flutter closed as he rests his cheek on the pillow.

"Who else have you let touch you?" Peter asks, roughly at best. His fingers are demanding on Stiles' wrists, digging in at the pulse points where his staccato heartbeat thumps through, and Stiles angles his head over his shoulder again, unable to look away for long.

"Like I'm going to tell you," he says. He should've done as Peter suggested and found the first drunken frat boy who ground against his hips at a party and let him suck Stiles off in the hallway, only to gloat about it now. The incident in the bathroom, Stiles slumped on a toilet seat with his pants hanging off his ankles, flits through his mind.

Peter growls. "Tell me." His voice has gotten dangerously low, low enough that Stiles sees a flash of blue in his eyes before it's gone again a moment later. Stiles hates his body for how it shudders at the sight of it, thrilled adrenaline striking him like lightning.

"No one," Stiles says, then pokes the bear as he readjusts his ass to grind against Peter's cock, just far away enough to keep the friction torturously at bay. "But people wanted to. I could tell from the way they only ever stared at my mouth."

It fires Peter up, that's for sure, and suddenly there are claws on Stiles' hips, his free hand digging the smallest of crescents into his flesh. Stiles' mouth falls open at that, how just one push and he could be breaking skin, but Stiles continues anyway.

"Probably wanted to fuck my mouth," he mumbles, feeling headier by the second. There's a film of arousal blanketed over him, controlling his words, his teasing ruts back into Peter's cock. "Boy in my class even wanted to court me."

"You won't let him," Peter says, right on his ear. His breath is warm on Stiles' skin, pulling shivers to the surface, and then the claws are retreating into blunt nails, leaving white marks in their wake. "None of them."

And then he slithers down his body, pulling the wrists he's holding captive above Stiles' head down to the small of his back, his grip tight as he presses an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of his thigh before biting down on the vulnerable, pale skin there. Stiles' entire body feels it like a gasping breath after breaking through the waterline.

He doesn't waste time, not when Stiles has teased him to the point of nearly primordial possessiveness, and Peter's tongue spends time mapping out the skin on the soft underside of his knees, the expanse of his thigh, even the curve of his ass before he sucks a dark mark there, right on his butt cheek. He bites down a moment later, soothing the hurt with an attentive tongue, and Stiles knows right away it'll be a red bruise he'll feel every time he sits down, almost as if Peter wanted to leave the kind of imprint that makes him unforgettable. As if he wants Stiles to remember, remember his touch and his tongue and his words whispered on his neck.

"Get on with it," Stiles mutters, spreading his legs and flexing his bound wrists, Peter's index finger trailing a slow line down his ass, over his hole, past his perineum while he chuckles at the way every inch sends Stiles reeling. He pushes his face into the pillow, and then Peter flicks his tongue out over his ass.

God, he missed this. Then Peter trails his tongue along the rim of his ass, tracing his puckered entrance, and then he pushes in and Stiles feels the heavens pulse around him complete with an angelic choir. Peter, Peter, Peter, his mind chants, and this time he's actually with the right man, not some nameless college kid pushing him into a bathroom. God, yes, _Peter_.

"Stop wearing it out," Peter murmurs directly on his ass with a sharp bite, and he really ought to watch his mouth a bit more.

Peter's tongue goes straight back to work—flat and then curled and then _oh_, inside—and Stiles bites onto the pillow to keep himself in check. He's pretty sure a few shuddering curses still make it out before the pillows muffles him enough to keep his swearing at bay, because staying still is probably the hardest thing he's ever had to convince his body to do.

He feels something that's probably a primordial growl by his ass right before Peter's tongue breaches him, working him open and pulling him apart with thumbs on his ass cheeks, and everything is warm and wet and lovely and Stiles wants to bottle up this particular brand of euphoria for bad days. He looks over his shoulder and there's Peter, eyes directly on him, and his hands kneading the skin on Stiles' thighs.

It all feels amazing, and then Peter's stubble slides against him and sends Stiles reeling into another dimension. Peter's murmuring on his hole, tongue sliding in and out in a rhythm that feels like he's slowly trying to kill Stiles one lick at a time. It feels like he's taking care of him, like he's giving him exactly what he needs, and that makes Stiles wants to laugh against the pillow. Peter taking care of him, _honestly_.

He feels like there's so much they never did. Flavored lube, or edible condoms, whatever happened to those ideas? Stiles wants more time, more time exploring Peter and learning the secrets of every nook of his body. He's pretty sure he could pass a lifetime discovering Peter. Peter's tongue flattens on his hole before pushing in, further than before, and already Stiles is close and his voice is breaking.

"I'm—I'm gonna come," Stiles gasps, already feeling the tension coil in his midsection and the sweat gather on his forehead.

Peter pulls back instantly, teeth grazing his thigh to pull him back from the edge.

"Don't," he warns. "Not until I say."

Stiles whimpers, feels that all too familiar tug of submission run through him as the pleasure tingles through his very fingertips. He cranes his head to look over his shoulder and there's Peter, mouth slick from eating Stiles out and eyes dilated like they've been dipped in black ink. Stiles never wants to abandon this feeling, the rush of pleasure like the tide sweeping in and out in uncontrollable waves. That's what Peter is, a freaking force of nature.

"Please," Stiles moans, his fingers already sore from being tensed into fists and his pillowcase wet from where he's been biting it. "Peter, please."

Peter leans in to circle his tongue around Stiles' hole, so light it's almost ticklish, and the sight alone makes Stiles' body want to come right here and now with Peter's mouth on his ass and his gaze locked with Stiles'. He holds himself back.

"You have no idea," Peter murmurs, shaking his head. The unadulterated lust in his eyes has been replaced with something akin to reverence, almost as if he can't fathom even the idea of Stiles spread out naked and wanting on his bed, all for him. "You look so... it's a miracle I haven't wrecked you yet."

"Halfway there," Stiles rasps, and it's true. He's not sure he could survive a lifetime with Peter.

"I'm going to fuck you," Peter tells him, nearly whispering as his eyes rove down Stiles' body, and Stiles feels a fresh shot of blood go straight south to his dick at that. He's so ready, so willing, and he arches his ass upwards to encourage him.

"Thank god," Stiles groans against the pillow. Everything about the bed is hot now, no longer cool sheets on his skin, and he writhes impatiently on the mattress. The image he must make. "Get the lube already."

Peter soothes him with a squeeze to his ass and a soft shushing, and Stiles watches he pulls a small tube out of his back pocket. He's torn between laughing with relief and smacking Peter upside the head. His libido is leaning toward the former.

"Someone's smug," Stiles says pointedly as Peter squeezes lube onto his fingers.

Peter leans in to chuckle. He murmurs by Stiles' ear, his captive wrists stuck between their bodies as he whispers, "I just know you're easy."

It jolts through Stiles' memory, a muggy summer and Stiles pulling open Peter's door announcing his appearance, Peter teasing him for the condoms in his bag. It seems fuzzy by now, the evening blurred by wine, but Peter remembers. Like Stiles is worth remembering.

And then he pushes a slick finger into Stiles' hole, already wet from his tongue, and Stiles' words are stolen from his mouth. He takes his time, easing in to the knuckle before tortuously pulling out again. He's such a tease, the worst of them all, and Stiles keens, pushing his ass into Peter's hands only to have him retract his finger once more.

He's about to yell at him to get a move on, to get this show on the road, but then Peter pushes in deep enough to crook his finger and hit his prostate and Stiles' complaints are swallowed with a loud groan sliding free without permission from his lips. It's probably exactly what Peter wanted to hear, sliding his finger free.

"More?" Peter murmurs. It's quiet in the room, nothing but shifting sheets and Stiles' broken breathing, but it feels like Peter's voice is all around him, filling his ears.

"If by more, you mean your cock, then yeah, _yeah_," Stiles stutters out. Peter kisses his shoulder, and then the notches of his spine, and then his cock is nestled between his ass, sliding upward and slick with lube. He skips over his hole, carefully pushing his erection between his ass cheeks.

Up and down. Up again. Stiles thinks he's going to scream into the ethers. Every push of Peter's dick brushes over his hole, as if he's waiting for Stiles to beg for more, and Stiles refuses to give Peter the satisfaction.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?" Stiles groans, and he's so agonizingly hard his eyes are nearly leaking at the pressure of it all. He already feels a circle of a bruise form where Peter's fingers are unrelenting on his wrist, his cock sliding against the rough fabric of his scratchy sheets in his search for friction.

"Maybe I just like admiring the view," Peter murmurs. His tongue is still on his skin, meticulously following the bumps and curves of Stiles' spine like he wants to taste every inch until his DNA is permanent in his mouth. His hands smooth out over Stiles' ass, spreading it until air hits his skin where it's still damp from Peter rimming his hole. He whines, every fiber of him needing to be fucked, wanting to be full, aching to have Peter bent over his backside while his hips slide into him.

"Stop teasing," Stiles all but croaks. "Just fuck me."

"You can ask more nicely than that," Peter murmurs, tongue hot on his back. Stiles wishes he had claws, just here and now, so he could rip Peter's head off and hold it hostage until he's properly fucked. His patience has run out.

"If you don't fuck me properly," Stiles snarls over his shoulder. Every inch of his body feels like it's sizzling with electricity, and there goes Peter's cock sliding over his entrance again, aggravating it that much more. "I'm going to castrate you. Here and now."

"Pushy," Peter murmurs, but there's something dark in his eyes like he's happy to comply.

He slides in without preamble after that, just one thrust home that his Stiles' jaw dropping open and a white heat exploding behind his eyelids like a swift kick to the gut. He hears Peter's moan of relief, like a man finding water in the desert, and Stiles can relate. A palm lands on Stiles' back, firm and questioning, wordlessly asking the _still okay?_ that Peter's mouth never does. Stiles nods imperceptibly against the pillow and that's all it takes for Peter to slide out and push back in.

And god, the drag of Peter's thick cock inside of him is worse than heroin. It's an addiction Stiles can't sweat out, only craves that much more, and then Peter lets go of Stiles' bound hands to grip onto his hipbones, keeping him in place as he thrusts in again, and Stiles feels a part of himself he'll never get back again fly off to heaven. Or pledge allegiance to Peter's dick, alongside his brain cells.

"Amazing," Peter is murmuring, fingertip rubbing over Stiles' hole where he's stretched around Peter, and Stiles nods along uselessly. Yes, yes, yes to anything as long as this continues. As long as this moment stays important in his life, right up there with opening that trampoline on his seventh birthday, as long as he remembers how exhilarating it felt, everything will be fine.

"I know," Stiles breathes back. He doesn't know if Peter's talking about his ass or the sex or even just the fact that life has lead them both to this moment, but Stiles agrees that it's amazing. He has to get that out there, and his litany of groans emphasizes his sentiments perfectly.

Peter's cock nudges his prostate and there it is, just like sliding into third base. _Safe,_ a commentator is probably yelling somewhere, but Peter is running all the way to fourth with Stiles yelling at him in the stands to go for it. As if Peter would ever do safe.

"Right there," Peter is saying, not even asking, because he knows Stiles' body better than Stiles does, knows his reactions to hair pulling and shoulder biting and how his legs quiver when he finds his prostate. It's such an intimate detail, different than any of the things that his father or Scott knows about him, and that should probably scare him. This man knows secrets about him, secrets that Stiles trusts him to keep, and he hopes to god that isn't the definition of love. He's screwed otherwise.

Peter changes his angle then, just a small tilt of his hips, and now he's sliding into Stiles like he belongs there, like he was built to wring broken sighs from Stiles' throat. His knowledge of Stiles' body is startling and frightening and thrilling all at once, like watching a plane crash from a distance. Maybe he is the plane crash.

Every thrust pushes Stiles' cock against the linens, back and forward, rutting against him and urging him that much closer. Stiles turns his head, his eyes hardly focusing on anything near him, and then Peter's hips snap forward again like Stiles is home plate.

"Can I—" Stiles moans, his voice frayed. "Let me."

"Yes, Stiles," Peter tells him, and there's the broad hand on his back again, the unspoken go ahead. His fingernails scrape Stiles' skin. "Come. Come for me, do it."

He does, probably hard enough to knock out a streetlamp, and then Peter's pulling out and coming on his backside, Stiles riding through all of it in a haze of boneless pleasure. He doesn't remember the last time he came like this, normally just a few moments of white behind his eyes in the shower and then it's all washed away, and then Peter's letting go of his wrists and sliding up to tuck him into his chest. He's sweaty and sticky and only half conscious of the world around him, but he doesn't bother to pull away from the overwhelming warmth that is Peter's torso. He's going to be so sore tomorrow, starting with his ass, and this is what happens when he swears off gay sex for months on end. He exhales, his lungs pushing out a breath that feels like one hundred worries all at once leaving his body, and then Peter's petting his hair and reaching around his hips to feel his swollen hole. Stiles jumps.

"Ah, so you're still alive," Peter says. Stiles bites him half-heartedly on the chest and pushes the sweat off his forehead, feeling thoroughly sated and limbless and slightly mummified.

"Barely," Stiles mumbles, dragging his nose up from Peter's chest to breathe in fresh air. It all feels like a second skin, he and Peter, rolled haphazardly around each other, and it probably shouldn't. It shouldn't be so nice.

"You're going to bruise," is the first thing Peter says after the silence settles, a mild observation from where he's slithered up to Stiles' side. A hand ghosts over Stiles' wrist, fingers trailing the red marks already crawling out to contrast with Stiles' pallid skin.

"Whose fault is that?" Stiles groans, a hand over his eyes. He lifts his wrist up to peek at between his fingers. "I look like I was arrested and fought my handcuffs. A lot."

"Ooh," Peter drawls, clearly intrigued by the idea of handcuffs. Then there's a pair of lips on his ear, dragging up the shell and pulling Stiles back to earth like a demanding tide in salty waters. "So should I send Scott a thank you card?"

Scott, right. That's all it takes for reality to settle back in like a voice yelling behind a curtain, disrupting the peace like a shrill whistle. Stiles peels his eyes open and twists away from the mouth on his ear.

"This doesn't change anything," he says, and if only his entire body could fold away from Peter. It refuses, drawn to the warmth of his bare torso. "I'm not angry, I'm just—" He sighs. He's tired, so tired of standing up for the good side. "_We want different things_ doesn't even begin to cover it."

For a second, the moment feels precarious, like a teacup on the edge of a shelf or light staring right into dark, the air uncertain and raw with emotion. Stiles feels, very uncomfortably, just how naked he is, just how vulnerable he is, and he's about to squirm away to freedom when Peter's hand lands on his hip, softly this time.

"Stop," he says. It kills Stiles how he doesn't even need a vocabulary around Peter anymore, how easy it is to understand each other. "Stop thinking."

Fuck him for making it sound so simple, for him to make Stiles so two dimensional. "Fuck you," Stiles says. "Fuck how easy you try to make it, fuck you for messing this up so much. Fuck you for being exactly who you are when you know I need something else."

And that's not exactly fair, not when Peter is who he is and Stiles knew that from the start. He didn't sign up for the disillusionment package, as a matter of fact, he signed up for a package that didn't feature personalities at all. Stiles should've known better from the start.

Peter exhales, a heavy sound in the dim light. Stiles waits for the rebuttal, for the inevitable sarcastic dismissal of Stiles' histrionics, but instead there's an arm snaking around Stiles' waist, pulling him closer until their sticky bodies are pressed together. Oddly enough, it feels more intimate than anything else they've done today, and Stiles isn't even sure how to properly react until Peter's reaching for the discarded sheets to pull up to their chests.

"Just stop thinking," he says, quietly this time and just a little frustratingly, and Stiles doesn't have the energy to fight back.

Somehow he falls asleep, pillowed on Peter's sternum and his shoulders feeling lighter like an invisible burden he hadn't taken notice of has been removed, and it makes Stiles wonder if he's missing out on the message here. Maybe this is supposed to happen, maybe something higher in rank than him in the universe is watching these events unfold and saying _finally, now don't screw it up_.

It feels crazy even thinking it, but maybe it could work. Maybe it could all work, maybe it can be fixed. Stiles' fingers are warm where they're tangled with Peter's between them and his cheeks are sore from the burn of his stubble, and he still feels relieved. Something is probably psychologically wrong with him, but Stiles thinks normal is boring. Not being in a dysfunctional relationship with a man suffering from murderous impulses is boring.

_I have not been myself lately_, Stiles' brain is thinking, and it sounds like echoes of Scott's sad words mumbled in his ears as he slung his arm over his shoulder and lugged him home. He feels Peter's strong arm around his waist and modifies it to _I am not myself these days without you here._ He thinks about saying it out loud, but then—Peter might hear him.

"I don't like the person I am when you're not around," his mouth ends up saying out loud without permission from his brain. It's ridiculous, it sounds ridiculous as it leaves his brain, and he still feels like he has to say it out loud. He feels Peter's chest expand and press against his back as he inhales, and then exhales, even with sleep, but Peter says nothing, and Stiles finds himself suddenly wishing that Peter did hear him.

Tomorrow, Stiles thinks, and there's that crazy thought again—this might work with a bit of handiwork. Tomorrow he'll tell him.

Nine hours later when Stiles wakes up, Peter is gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Waking up bathed in the budding sunrise with Stiles' body molded into his chest on a lumpy mattress while the sounds of thumping footsteps padded through the halls was different.

It had felt a little bit like defeat at first. Here he was, at college with Stiles, the one thing he had promised he wouldn't do. Stiles was supposed to go alone, get lost in the sea of drunken parties and fuck the frat boys Peter told him to find, but Peter is still here, in Stiles' dorm, and he boils inside when he thinks of the boys he might've touched. So literally nothing is going to plan.

Stiles had looked very peaceful. Almost like sleeping next to Peter had a calming effect, like chamomile tea and a massage before bed. Like maybe he was looking forward to having an adult conversation in the morning. The problem is, there is no solution to this. It doesn't matter if they misunderstood each other, that Peter never intended to hatch a fully-fledged plan to kill Scott and use Stiles as his pawn, because Peter agrees that it easily sounds like something he would do. Something he might do.

Giving him up is a real shame. Down in his arms, hair tickling his forehead and lips parted while his eyelashes flutter on his cheeks while he sleeps, it's hard not to remember how much potential Stiles has. But Stiles had chosen his side, and Peter was perpetually stuck on his. They worked together well in sex and physicality, but anything more, it was like a car crash waiting to happen. Incompatible.

They don't belong in each other's worlds, not when Peter's very urges go against the grain of Stiles' skin. It is inevitable—he will kill again, and he will do it to serve himself. He can already imagine Stiles' face, crestfallen, surprised, mouth open as he ducks his head and shakes it. He would be disappointed, and frustrated, and angry at himself for believing that Peter could change.

And Peter doesn't want to change. He doesn't want to be loved either, not unless Stiles knows how horrible, how inherently repulsive he is and loves him anyway.

So Peter doesn't think twice about leaving. He has to leave, and it's that simple.

He slips out of Stiles' bed before the sunrise, the sky still gray and the air quiet. Stiles doesn't even stir as Peter slides out from underneath the arm slung over his waist and the chest pillowing his head pulls away, and Peter takes one last look at his slumbering form before walking out.

It was nice. It was incredible, actually, to touch Stiles and hear him moan and see all of his mannerisms face-to-face that he had forgotten, like the fidgeting or the constant swipe of his tongue over his lower lip. But Stiles had said it himself—_this doesn't change anything_, and Peter agrees.

Scott will be mad, he's sure, but he won't come back. Stiles won't let him, not when he wakes up and sees the cold spot in the bed next to him. Peter's doing him a favor, really. He knows, and he's sure Stiles knows too, that their worlds just don't collide well.

A part of Peter fears what he would become around Stiles. Infuriated, sure, endlessly annoyed, yes, even challenged. Then there's the thought he has that he might become a better man around Stiles, and that wasn't something he ever wanted. If anything, he had wanted the opposite and have Stiles become someone worse, someone just like him. The idea of accidentally ending up the prey is a little dizzying.

So he leaves. It feels like all the other times he's left someone behind, almost like second nature, because Peter looks out for number one. He'd have no survival instinct if he didn't.

He never heard it said out loud, but Peter would've had to plug his nose to not smell emotions on Stiles last night. Fondness, nostalgia, and the incredibly strong scent of missing someone was prevalent when he pushed him down on his bed and fucked him, and quite honestly, it was frightening to be the subject of someone's unabated feelings. To be missed.

_I don't like the person I am when you're not around_. That's how Stiles had phrased it.

Stiles probably thinks he loves him. Derek would say he's being too cocky if he heard him, but it's not even close to an ego problem, not when Peter knows perfectly well that Stiles is kidding himself. Maybe he loves the man he wants him to be. Stiles might wrap it up and pepper it as being in love, but Peter knows he's in denial. Possibly in a delusion.

This was probably the goodbye Stiles had wanted all along. Not drawn swords and confessions of murder, just the two of them letting their bodies do the talking. Maybe now he'll feel closure.

So he leaves, and it feels just fine.

* * *

He waits twenty four hours for the inevitable angry text. Something meant to make him feel rotten and guilty right before he deletes it alongside Stiles' number. Something angry and indignant with cuss words littered in the middle.

It never comes.

* * *

Despite Peter's attempt to keep their one night stand after months of familiarity under wraps, Derek knows instantly, and calls the next day.

"He's quite the chatterbox, isn't he?" Peter asks dryly as Derek asks him what happened. _Did you go see him? Did you talk? Is he better now?_ They're all questions that Peter is utterly uninterested in answering, and the fact that the _end call_ button is tortuously near tempts him on multiple occasions. He never pinpointed Stiles as a gossip, the kind of boy who would go from hiding his sexual affair in shame to boldly sharing the gory details with everybody who had working ears, but then again, it's not like he knows Stiles all that well in the first place.

"Stiles didn't tell me anything," Derek tells him sharply. "Scott told me that he went to you."

"Yes, you keep up with the local news splendidly," Peter drawls. He doesn't want to be having this conversation, not a single iota of him. "And?"

"And did you go to see Stiles?" Derek asks again, this time more grimly. He can probably tell from Peter's tone of voice that this story doesn't end with him saying that Stiles is frolicking naked in his bed sheets _right now_. Peter sighs.

"I did."

"You left, didn't you?"

Peter frowns. When did he become that predictable? "I did." He thinks about maybe adding the bit where he did it for Stiles' own good, and that anybody who thinks they can coexist with him is fooling themselves. Derek would probably agree without a struggle.

"Not surprised."

Peter's frown hardens. "I don't belong in his life."

"Oh, is that it?" Derek asks him. He sounds skeptical, like he's predicted Peter's every move. "You didn't want to hurt him?"

That had never been one of Peter's concerns. Hurting Stiles—the idea didn't even occur to him. Scarring his father, tormenting Derek, passing the time to cure his own boredom in a town that only ever infuriated him, sure. But spending time and mental energy on considering that Stiles might be affected, that the way he looked at sex and maybe even love would change, that didn't cross his mind as a conscious worry. His eyes flick to the inhaler, still sitting next to the trash can like an organ he's keeping for sentimental safekeeping. He's made of iron and metal and twigs, so none of this should have any effect on him.

The idea of hurting Stiles without even considering it, without even intending to do it—Peter typically prefers to hurt intentionally with plenty consideration—is a little jarring. Stiles knew what he was getting into, and he knew that to expect, and still, he ended up with bruises and scars. Maybe that's just human nature. Or maybe that's just Peter's effect on people. He should probably feel proud, but the swell of conceit doesn't come. On the other end of the line, Derek sighs.

"You would've hurt him less if you had stayed," Derek says, and that's the end of that.

He leaves his apartment after two days of what Derek would probably call hiding away—what from, a teenage boy?—and goes to the market to fetch a replenishment of tea and perhaps even some new sheets that don't smell of Stiles' heady sweat.

Forgetting Stiles—even replacing him—seems like the best course of action now. He's helped Stiles get him out of his system, one last goodbye that Stiles can view as closure, because as he had said after Peter had pulled him to his chest, _this doesn't change anything_. Sex didn't magically fix things, even if Stiles was laboring under some false delusions.

For instance, the accusation that Peter was plotting to kill Scott—he probably should've denied that sooner. Yes, so he wants to be the Alpha. Yes, so he had _considered_ Scott, since he was just _so damn opportune_, not to mention that stealing one's True Alphahood simply must be a better rush than just snatching away the powers of an average Alpha, but then he had been inconveniently distracted by Stiles and his mouth and his twitching fingers. Killing Scott would have repercussions, in the form of his loyal friends and his growing pack, and while he can handle a little alienation just fine, he's not so sure he'd be comfortable with the hoard of teenagers looking to avenge a brutal murder. Peter didn't get the chance to verbalize that particular thought to Stiles, perhaps more delicately than his mind just created it.

But seeking Stiles out and driving out to the campus to tell him that no, he was wrong, Peter isn't _that_ shabby of a human being would be pointless. Peter isn't looking to fix their relationship, to mend the trust that had formed between them because they were bumping uglies, so showing up at his dorm to explain himself as something that could easily be mistaken as a grand, romantic gesture is out of the question. The bottom line is: Stiles wouldn't want him, not really. Not fully, like Peter suspected he wanted him. He would run scared at every monstrous instinct that Peter would follow—and he would. So he sticks to the plan, the plan of having sex, and then not. It's too simple to possibly mess up, so Peter has to wonder how the two of them somehow managed to muddle it up.

So a replacement will be the next course of action, Peter thinks as he strolls past the carts and heads into the market. Surely it won't be that hard to find himself an innocent young boy fresh out of high school interested in being taught in the complex art of orgasms. Peter could do that for the youth of today.

He reaches the tea aisle, wandering past the coffee and staring at the assortment in front of him. Derek would probably love to chime in right now that Peter desperately needs chamomile, but he's a creature of habit, so he picks up the peppermint and decides to turn to housewares for anything he can replace in his apartment that reminds him of Stiles. Rule of casual sex: remove all evidence of previous lover before inviting in a new toy.

He turns the corner, tea in hand, and then there's Stiles, right next to the cornflakes.

_Stiles_. Peter looks carefully, twice, three times, his eyes roving up and down every nook and bump he's intimately familiar with just to confirm what he's seeing, and that's definitely him. Miles away from his dormitory and perusing the aisles in Peter's grocery store, the very store he had laughed at Peter for because of how posh and pricey it was when he watched him carry in bags during one of their many nights spent together, wrapped up in sheets and each other and forgetting to put the food in the fridge. Stiles is here, and when Peter's eyes land on his chest, he sees that underneath his unzipped hoodie is something familiar. Peter's shirt.

There Stiles is, _in his shirt_. It's not quite as tight on him as it is on Peter, but still, the sight of it makes his mind stagger and his feet stop. A fierce wave of possessiveness clings onto him, something that tells him that no matter what happens, _do not let that boy go_. _Do not let your scent vanish from what he wears. Don't leave and be forgotten_. It makes him question everything he's done in the past week, perhaps even the past year, because Stiles was so close to leaving. But here he is now, wearing his things, right here in Peter's grocery store and completely out of his way, and surely that means that he cannot be pushed away. Peter doesn't know whether to be annoyed or impressed.

"That's my shirt," Peter says, feeling slightly faint. Stiles looks down, as if confirming the fact with his own eyes, and then meets Peter's gaze again. His lips twitch.

"Yeah," Stiles nods. For a second it looks like he planned it all this way, the smarmy kid, as if he knew what it would do to Peter's mental state to see him decked out in his scent. In his shirt. When did he leave that behind?

He should probably leave. He's good at that. He's been doing it for ages. Walking away from somebody is so unbelievably simple, and all it would entail is Peter calmly tucking his peppermint tea under his arm and leaving the store with a hastened step without giving Stiles a chance to follow him. A little shoplifting would be nothing compared to standing here staring at Stiles, covered in his scent. His eyes flick down to Stiles' neck, instinctively looking for leftover bruises, vampire footprints from a few nights ago, and sees the slightest of purple marks. He's all over Stiles, from his clothes to his teeth marks to cocky smirk on his lips that makes him feel like he's looking into a mirror.

"Haven't seen you here before," is what Peter ends up saying, all very coolly. "It's a bit out of your way, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Stiles admits. He takes a tiny shuffle forward, as if hoping Peter wouldn't notice. "I totally skipped a class to drive out here."

Peter grimaces. He can identify at least ten different emotions under Stiles' skin, irritation masking most of them. It's not like it's hard to understand. Peter left him naked and foolish in his bed for the greater good, and Stiles has all the right to be upset. Peter just doesn't want to see it unleashed in front of him right here by the cereal. What he'd like is to leave before whatever is bubbling under Stiles' flesh erupts.

"You shouldn't miss out on your education. It's bad for you." Peter tells him as sternly as possible. Stiles stares him down, clearly not interested in his small talk. If not small talk, his attempt to talk around the issue. Peter maintains that he isn't talking around anything, rather avoiding something particularly unpleasant that he knows can only end in him being yelled at by a teenage boy who smells of desperation and anger. What else is there, that scent that Peter can't quite make out? There's something else, underneath it all.

"I do a lot of things that are bad for me," Stiles counters. Peter should be proud—look at the fucking masterpiece he's created. He feels a strong urge, a primal need to grab him by the wrist and chain him up so he'll always have this around, this completely harmless entertainment in the form of classic wit. It could really work up Peter's appetite, constantly having this level of snark at the ready by his side.

He raises an eyebrow, the urge to comment on how deliciously college life has been treating Stiles tickling his tongue, but Stiles speaks up first. He takes another step forward, this one bolder.

"So since I drove all the way out here," Stiles says. "I think you can take a few minutes out of your day to hear me out."

Peter's eyes scan the area, roaming from the single father with the wailing child over by the yogurt aisle and the employee restocking crackers twenty feet away. This is Stiles' chosen stage, a small organic market with ridiculously high prices that Peter feels inclined to shop at, a market that Stiles knew he would be at. It makes him wonder what else Stiles knows about him.

"Right here?" Peter asks him. It's not like he'll be embarrassed, but he's certainly surprised. This is the same boy who used to jump out of his arms like a frightened kitten whenever a car would come rolling down the street of his cul-de-sac and Peter had pulled his shirt over his head, and this boy now wants to have a confrontation about their relationship here in public. Peter feels something like thrill run through him.

"Say what you want, but I deserve some answers from you," Stiles says, face chiseled into something steely and unyielding. He probably practiced this speech on the way here. He's probably been thinking about having this conversation for months. Peter has been the subject of his thoughts for hours, he realizes, maybe more, and it makes Peter feel something that isn't his usual blend of annoyance, murderous impulses, and impatience.

"All right," Peter agrees, and Stiles seems to gear himself up with a long breath. Peter can't believe he's doing this here, in the cereal aisle, in a grocery store, _at all_. He never thought Stiles had the guts or the gall.

"I just," he sighs, looking more conflicted than ever for a boy so small in his oversized hoodies, so young. For that brief moment, Peter feels remorse. Remorse for having ever touched Stiles, remorse for all the trauma he's seen that's made someone so full of unbridled life curl in like this, remorse that he's one of the villains responsible for it. "I just want to know if it was all because you wanted me to help you become the Alpha again."

He wants answers. If that's all he wants, Peter might as well give him some.

Peter thinks about it, and strangely enough, the answer comes to him quickly instead of stewing in his brain. Stiles is incredible. Stiles is human and breakable and still so strong in the way Peter will never be, strong to the point of nearly obnoxiously impulsive. He's not a trophy, and he's not a sidekick, and he's not even an asset. He's very, very real. He wants to touch him, to snag his wrist with his fingers and feel the steady pulse pumping there, and holds himself back for reasons unknown.

He takes a step forward, and this is where he lies and Stiles will shout and curse but eventually, he will walk away and live a carefree life with a pretty girl who will like his charm and his brown eyes. This is the part where the attachment stops and Peter can go back to being himself. And then Stiles gives up waiting and talks first.

"Okay, fine," Stiles says suddenly, loud and sharp and fueled with something that is probably crazy nerve. "I'll talk first."

He looks horribly nervous, almost nauseated. Peter focuses on his heartbeat, rapid and uncertain, and on his own, and listens to how raw and human it sounds to have their heartbeats thump in tandem. If he tried, he could make them match.

"Look, I think I love you," Stiles blurts out in one fast breath. "Whatever the fuck that means. You're kind of terrifying and also kind of _dumb_ and I don't even think people know how to love you, but I think—fuck, _I_ do."

He's looking straight at Peter, all brave words and trembling hands. It's an act of defiance against his ever climbing heartbeat, faster than ever before, and Peter feels a fierce wave of pride at just how far he's come, even with shaking fists and nervous lips, how he can stand here and tell someone as damaged and broken as Peter that he loves him in spite of all those things. Because of them.

"And I also think you're kind of terrible, so yeah, I'm sorry that people probably fucked you up and made you so—" he cuts himself off, his vocabulary probably falling short of all the ways he wants to describe Peter. "I'm not going to ask you to change because I'm not kidding myself. You're a real life murderer and that kind of scares me a bit, but I. I _know_ you, even if you think I don't. I want to be around you, and maybe a little extra too."

He should probably breathe between words, Peter thinks idly. It'd be terrible if he suffocated before he could finish and Peter would have to watch his terrified face frozen in time forever, suspended in the fear of his own confession. He thinks he should speak up, that this is the time to say something, but his mouth doesn't want to.

"I don't want to encourage all of your craziness, god. I just want to be enough, I want _me_ to be enough. Yeah, so you won't be the freaking Alpha and you're stuck with the blue eyes. But—but you'll have me," Stiles takes a step forward and breathes, a rattled shake of his lungs that it probably pains him to instigate. He looks up straight into his face, Peter captivated as always by the golden flecks in his eyes. "Is that—I mean, is that enough?"

He thinks about how easy it would be to say yes. It would be just like when Stiles' head, pillowed on his lap and heavy with warmth, had asked him if it was okay to be free with him. Those kind of questions are rhetorical, Peter knows, and he's enough of a charmer to always say yes.

But Stiles doesn't want to be charmed, and Peter doesn't want to charm him. He's spent his whole life smiling in unsuspecting faces while fiddling with knives behind his back, and he wonders what it might feel like to smile with meaning. To smile without deception. Does it still feel satisfying? Does it perhaps feel more so?

_Is that enough_. Stiles is looking at him, impatience drawn over his face like Peter only has thirty seconds to come to a decision, half a minute to figure out if he really wants power or merely convinced himself he did. It's like the toy you beg for only to play with once after unwrapping it. The only question here is what the toy is—Stiles or power.

"Fuck that," Stiles bursts in again. He's so nervous Peter can hear his heart like a fast-paced drum echoing off the walls. "I know you love me too."

There's a boldness in his eyes now that's sharply contrasting the heavy quaking of his hands by his sides. Peter is driven momentarily speechless.

"You know I love you?" He repeats back, baffled. Stiles nods. "You know nothing about me."

"Oh, shut up, Peter."

"_Shut up?_"

"Yes, _shut up_," Stiles enunciates carefully this time, a wildness in his eyes that Peter probably put there. If this is a love confession, he's not convinced—aroused, maybe.

It hits him then that he's right, and that this _definitely_ isn't a love confession. It's a confession of strength and personal charge and dominance, like Stiles is sick of being the left behind runner up. Peter looks at him carefully this time, tall and shaking like an erupting volcano, and sees a strength there he never took the time to look for. He knows what the other emotions are he's smelling now—undercurrents of confidence and fortitude and even affection. Real life affection.

And yes, he's definitely aroused now. Stiles is standing in front of him with a staccato heartbeat and unyielding words, and Peter wants him. Every part of him, plus the benefits.

"You love me," Stiles says again. "You love me, you do." It sounds firmer every time. "And why not? I'm a fucking catch. I probably make you feel things you never have before, you big tin can."

"Are you trying to bully my feelings?" Peter asks him, just for clarification. It's a little hot, not that he'll admit it.

"Maybe they need to be bullied," Stiles admits in stride. Never before has Peter ever found him so attractive, which is strange, because he always thought it was the helpless boy he wanted, the one that gave him a rush of power, not someone strong who was unwilling to yield to menacing eyes and a flash of fangs.

"You can't," Peter tells him. "They're unshakable."

"Unshakable in _loving me_," he pounds his own chest. "I know you want me. Just say it."

And then he looks at Peter with his arms outstretched, like he's waiting for a hug or for Peter to take his best shot, it's unclear which one is the intended reaction. Maybe both. And of course he fucking wants him. He wanted him ever since he saw his stricken face on the lacrosse field, and then even more when he grabbed him by the neck and smelled his fear, and then the most when his fear drifted into defiance.

"I want you," Peter says. It's surprisingly easy to say so, but then when he steps forward Stiles halts him with a hand on his chest.

"I know," he says, his eyes level with Peter's. "That's not really what I want to hear."

Always throwing surprises around, that one. He stiffens, and thinks about mentioning that he won't beg—not for free, anyway—and then thinks that right now, he actually might. Stiles licks his lips and Peter notices instantly. He's still nervous, even as he stands his ground like a trained colonel, and that, he thinks, is Stiles in a nutshell. Always two conflicting traits somehow combining in one body.

"What do you want to hear?" Peter asks. Stiles' hand drops from his chest.

"I want to know if you _want_ to want me."

He lets that sentence roll around in his mind for a second. He considers asking for clarification, even just raising his eyebrow in a patronizing wordless request for more information, but he doesn't need more. Peter knows himself too well.

Stiles may not be asking it, but he wants to know what made Peter so damaged. What made him push Stiles back and forth like an angry tide. Stiles already knows if he paid attention. That's the danger of letting people get close, he had told him that day in the shower when Stiles' biggest worry had been Scott stumbling in on them naked, and Stiles had frowned because he hadn't understood. Control is easy. Fucking is easy. Wanting is easy. Getting what you want is a different story.

What he wants are the easy things. The things that don't really make any impact, just enter his life and sashay out of it without noticeable footprints left behind. One night stands, forgettable murders, fast sex and throwing around lies for fun all fall under that category. Keeping Stiles is not something he wants. Stiles means growing used to a presence by his side, Stiles means confiding in the human side of himself that's dormant from the public, Stiles is everything that he doesn't believe in and everything that scares him. Ironic, that, considering he's usually the one doing the scaring.

"I don't," Peter tells him, and something in Stiles' eyes sag even if his shoulders don't. "But you don't want to either. And we do anyway. Should we celebrate how mind-numbingly illogical that is?"

He reaches up to grab Stiles' cheek and Stiles roughly seizes him by the palm, guiding him away from his jaw. "Peter," he says, and it sounds like a warning.

Stiles probably thinks he knows what he wants. The thing is, he doesn't know Peter. He doesn't know how his mind twists, how the thoughts that plague him that could make passerby hurl are pedestrian to him. He and Stiles live in different worlds, and then there's Stiles trying to cross over into Peter's universe without realizing that he belongs in his own.

"I would do things to disappoint you," Peter says. "I would do things you won't approve of. I'll do things most justice systems and prison wardens won't approve of, and I can't help it."

"I know that you'll fucking disappoint me, dammit, you used to do it every week," Stiles snaps. "Sometimes every day." Peter bristles, and Stiles promptly plows on. "You're bad. And sometimes you're actually good. And you know what? You wear the hell out of both of them."

He's starting to look flushed, breathless and pink in the cheeks. In his element, Peter thinks faintly, and it makes him wonder why he always said he talked too much.

"You know what I want," Stiles says, and his arms are at his side again, letting himself be vulnerable. "So just give it to me." He takes a moment to stare at the ceiling, crossing the bridge from mildly annoyed to fairly irked. "Do I have to ask for everything around here?"

"Oh," Peter says, because he can't help himself. "You're just too pretty when you beg."

"Just take me seriously for a second," Stiles says. "Everybody always tells me how crazy you are—hell, I _know_ how crazy you are—and I still want you to stay. Not as your pet or your evil accomplice, but just as me. I want you to stay. With me." He takes another breath. His lungs seem to be short on air. "So. So what I'm asking is, do you love me too?"

He looks him straight in the eye. He's laying all the cards on the table, every bit of himself up for grabs, and Peter can smell the fear and the undertones of hope in the air. He's so much more interesting than Peter ever gave him credit for.

"You already know," Peter says. He doesn't think he can say it out loud, not when he's sure he might combust into something sugary and Victorian if he does, but Stiles deserves to know. This, what he and Stiles have, the way it tugs at him in the heart he thought had run away deep in the night years ago, he knows what it is. "You're insane for wanting me to stay."

"I know," Stiles acquiesces, and for a moment, something unspoken hangs between them. This might be what real love feels like, mutual insanity, but he's not quite sure yet. It's been a while.

Stiles seems to be feeling the same thing, the unsureness that tickles under the skin, so he steps forward and doesn't stop until he's pulling Peter in by the shoulders. Peter doesn't remember stepping forward to meet him halfway, but suddenly there is no more space between them and Stiles' palm is on the back of his neck pulling him in. His arms wrap around him and it feels good, like sitting in the sun on a warm day, so Peter inhales the scent of his shampoo alongside the stronger scent of his fear and hugs him back. He doesn't think he's ever hugged Stiles, not the whole time they were fucking and getting naked in the back of cars. It feels staggeringly human.

"No more fucking up," Stiles says fiercely onto his shoulder. It comes out muffled by the fabric of Peter's shirt. His hands are tight where they're gripping his back. "I have people who would be happy to kill you for me."

Peter believes him. "I'll try to fuck up in strictly human, regular relationship ways from now on," he promises. He's not sure he'll be able to keep it, but Stiles feels warm in his arms, the sort of thing that might be able to keep him grounded after all.

Stiles pulls back a moment later, hands still fisting handfuls of Peter's shirt as his head emerges. He looks like he wants to laugh, like he never expected—possibly never _wanted_ his life to turn out quite like this—but Peter is a big fan of rolling with the punches. He have to be with all the failed plans he's usually stuck in the middle of.

"So you're desperately in love with me, huh?" Peter can't help himself. Stiles snorts. "I guess I shouldn't be surp—"

He's interrupted with Stiles' mouth on his, lips parted and body pressing firmly into his, clearly keen on pushing his words away to make way for silence. That used to be Peter's favorite move, silencing Stiles with his mouth whenever he would get overly chatty, and Stiles has unfairly stolen it from him. He'll file a complaint later, right now he'll pull Stiles in by his belt loops and kiss him back.

Instead he holds onto Stiles' shirt fiercely, reveling in the feeling of Stiles pressed close. He's no longer the same boy he started out with, the boy who was unsure about his sexuality and aching to perform adequately enough to be kept around. That's probably what Stiles wanted the whole time, to be kept around, which Peter is starting to think he's fine with. Some people aren't invited, they just fight their way into someone's life, and maybe Peter just has to live with that. After all, here he is, kissing Stiles again and he'd be fine with never stopping for air, because Stiles wants him enough despite everything to find him in a grocery store.

"Such an idiot," Stiles is murmuring on mouth in between every kiss, yet every word sounds like _I love you_ wrapped in crooked masks and see through tape. Peter smiles and Stiles bites his bottom lip. "You're such a fucking idiot."

Peter pushes him back into an aisle, right up against a shelf, and Stiles' hand reaches out to steady himself and ends up sweeping a handful of bags of chips to the ground. It's funny up until somebody clears their throat down the aisle and Stiles pulls away suddenly, as if remembering the world around him, and there's a woman haughtily surveying them with coffee grounds in her hands like she's fondly remembering a time when there weren't public displays of affection in her local grocery store. Peter offers her a courteous smile that's all teeth and no meaning.

"Surely there's a better place for you to do that," the woman says, not without contempt, and Peter feels a familiar flicker of annoyance with the general public bubble up in his midsection. Perhaps they should relocate themselves to a different aisle where they can scar different elderlies with their necking. She totters off, an indignant pull to her shoulders.

"Now what?" Stiles asks when he pulls back. "I'm not going back to class."

He looks petulant, exactly like a child. It's actually quite endearing, which is an odd thought to have considering he had been writing Stiles off as hopelessly childish for months. Perhaps that was one of Stiles' worries from the beginning, why he constantly grumbled about Peter's jokes about his age, like he was perpetually frightened of being too young for Peter and his lifestyle. He probably is, but considering that Peter doesn't care about the law, his nephew's opinion, or the well-being of ninety-five percent of the earth, he might as well not bother caring about an age gap either.

"Then don't," Peter murmurs, keeping their lips close. Stiles' mouth is addictive. Stiles is addictive. Peter is not good at self-restraint. "My place is nearby."

Stiles seems to consider it, and then shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "Let's go to my dad's."

Peter cocks an eyebrow. "Your dad's?"

"Let's almost get caught again," Stiles says, a wicked glint in his eyes. Peter can hardly believe what he's hearing, what he's _seeing_ right in front of him, but this might just be the new and improved Stiles. Brazen and confident to the point of borderline stupidity and no longer ashamed. Peter really doesn't stand a single chance.

* * *

The house is empty when they reach it, locked and darkened. Stiles fishes his key out of his pocket and almost uses the car key on accident in his haste to slip inside, Peter's hand low on his hip, and it feels reminiscent of months ago when bickering was their best skill as a pair.

There's leftovers on the stove and a tranquil silence when they sneak in, his father clearly spending another long night at the station. It feels just like old times, Stiles hushing Peter and urging him to go upstairs rather than molest him in plain sight right by the window to make sure they could keep their secret as long as possible lest the nosy Mrs. Privot is watching from her garden. Maybe it was because they worked well together somehow without others, even with all the snark and the banter, and prying eyes and judgmental stares could've easily ruin it. The secret's long out now, and it feels like ages ago when they were all standing in Derek's apartment watching the light of recognition dawn in everybody's eyes.

They go to Stiles' room, left exactly the way it was when he moved out. The sheets are still rumpled on the bed and the books are still scattered on the desk, a handful of forgotten socks strewn on the floor. Stiles falls down on the mattress and pulls Peter down with him, just like old times, except that they're both wearing clothes and might actually spend the next few hours talking. It's a bit of a foreign sensation, sitting cross-legged next to Stiles without the intention to tug his pants off his slender legs as quickly as possible, and Peter settles against the wall watching him get comfortable by the headboard.

"You should know," Peter says, looking at Stiles. Here in the dark only for Peter's eyes to focus on, he's like a work of art he feels fiercely possessive of. How he left him, he's not sure. "I was never going to kill Scott."

Stiles' head snaps up to meet his eyes. It's a topic they haven't breached yet, but he knows Stiles is itching to ask.

"You weren't completely wrong," Peter says. "I did want to be the Alpha again, and I did want to kill for it. And it's something you probably won't be able to understand unless you've felt the rush of power yourself. But I wasn't interested in stealing it from Scott."

"You weren't?"

"I did consider it," Peter admits. "He was extremely convenient. And it wouldn't have been too hard to plan."

Through the shadows, he sees Stiles' shoulders stiffen. Peter slides his palm over his thigh to grab his attention.

"That's not why I put my hand in your pants that day, Stiles," he assures him. "You weren't a pawn."

"Then why did you?"

That might just be the stupidest question Peter's heard in months, but he refrains laughing at the solemn expression on Stiles' face. He smirks instead and leans in closer. "Because you, Stiles," he says, tracing the line of his jawbone with his fingertip. He sees a hint of a smile tug at the corner of Stiles' mouth. "Are fucking irresistible."

That, Stiles can apparently believe. Through the smile he tries to keep at bay by biting the inside of his cheeks, Stiles reels Peter in by his shirt. "You're so full of shit," he says, even as his grin widens, and he kisses him hard on the mouth. It's something that feels extremely familiar, like a routine you fall back into after a long slumber, and Stiles' lips feel exactly like he remembers them. Maybe a touch softer.

"I wanted you for you," Peter tells him. It's one of the most honest confessions he's made in years, that he wanted a human being in his life for something other than manipulation and deception, and Stiles seems to notice it as well. His eyes widen a fraction.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Then tell me about your big bad plan."

Peter takes a breath and watches as Stiles gets comfortable against the pillows, clearly ready for the long haul. He's not used to sharing plans—as a matter of fact, he's not used to sharing anything. He keeps to himself, but here's Stiles looking at him with expectant eyes and an open mind and Peter doesn't want to deny him.

"The woman I killed that night in your yard was an emissary. I was trying to get to her Alpha," he says. "She told me nothing, so she became useless to me. I killed her."

"In my yard," Stiles pipes up dryly.

"That part was an accident," Peter grumbles, but honestly, looking back, he has no idea how he didn't know. He should've been able to smell Stiles and his laundry detergent and the open bag of Cheetos perpetually kept in his room from a mile away. "I didn't mean for you to get involved at all. As a matter of fact, the less meddling teenagers, the better."

"Hey. Watch who you're calling a—okay, fine. I am."

"I knew the pack was in town, so I tried to look for the Alpha myself. After all, all I really needed was the element of surprise."

The rest is easy to understand, so Peter doesn't bother narrating it. He would've found him, heard his last words, and slashed his throat open. It might've worked, too, if the murdered emissary hadn't been seen as a warning that caused the pack to catch wind of something nefarious brewing in town aimed directly at them.

"Okay, so let's say you would've killed him and become the Alpha," Stiles says. "Then what?"

"I start by rebuilding my pack, and taking Beacon Hills back from Derek, from Scott. With enough betas, it would've worked flawlessly."

He probably would've been even stronger than before. Last time, he was fresh out of the coma, weaker than he should have been, and this time around, he would have been unbeatable. Turn enough unsuspecting kids with potential and he'd have a pack that others would rival, and all prey he found would be his to devour.

"You know that I'll have to kill you if you so much as look at Scott the wrong way, right?" Stiles says, deadly serious, so serious it's downright adorable. But Peter knows better than to doubt a boy who has the ability to erase all evidence to a murder by hacking into his father's police files.

"All right," Peter accepts with a small nod.

"And honestly, let's just throw murder and bodily harm off the table altogether," he sweeps his arms out in front of him as if to clear an imaginary desk, and then something troubled slides into his eyes. "Including that pack with the Alpha you wanted to get to. You gotta leave them alone."

"They've probably left town," Peter drawls. He let that particular opportunity slip away from him a little bit when he spent the majority of his time staring at Stiles' belongings in his apartment instead of chasing down Alphas.

"How do you know?"

"It just makes sense, especially after being threatened."

"That sounds like a big fat assumption," Stiles points out. "You really gotta start thinking about the consequences of your actions."

Peter raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah," Stiles says firmly. "What if they decided to kidnap me and hold me hostage as your mate because you killed their emissary? Ever think of that, huh?"

"That would never happen," Peter deadpans. "You've been reading young adult romance novels."

Stiles smacks him across the arm. His defensiveness about his interest in literature is actually almost nauseatingly adorable, and Peter can't help but smile. Stiles nudges him with his shoulder.

"What about you, huh?" Stiles asks him, softer now. "What if they'd come after you?"

Peter looks at him. There in his eyes is something he almost struggles to describe until he figures it out—it's concern. Probably intermingled with protectiveness and dare he actually confirm it, love. Someone loves him enough to worry about him being mauled for revenge. Someone would actually cry at his funeral. Peter is oddly touched.

"You're worried about me?"

"Yeah, is that so bad?" Stiles says instantly, slightly defensive, and it sounds like the same tone Peter's been hearing for months but couldn't quite place—Stiles' poorly hidden attempts to pretend he doesn't care as much as he does. It must almost be a reflex by now, Peter saying something that mocks his emotions—_you know this is just sex_—and Stiles recoiling with something that denies him ever feeling such a thing. _Yeah, I'm definitely not in love with you._ Peter reaches out on instinct to grab his hand, an instinct that surprises him as much as it surprises Stiles, and the tension slips away from Stiles' rigid shoulders.

"You don't want me slain in cold blood because I ruffled the wrong feathers," Peter says. Stiles shrugs, murmuring something along the line of _well, you make a hell of a lot of enemies_. "That might be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

He says it dryly with an edge of humor, but it might just be true. Stiles is already different than all the others by staying, by finding him, by yelling at him that he won't take no for an answer because he loves him in spite of all his untamable nastiness. Stiles smirks at him.

"I have no trouble believing that," Stiles says, and his fingers slide between Peter's. Oddly enough, it feels more intimate than if his fingers were sliding into his asshole, and it makes him want to chuckle to himself. He holds it back for now.

"Well, I see your point," Peter agrees, stretching out next to him. He heaves a deep, theatrical sigh. "Now that there's someone _worrying_ about me I suppose I should stop murdering anybody who might take offense to that and come after me."

"Can you live without that?" Stiles asks him suddenly. His voice sounds smaller than before, a fraction more uncertain than it was. "Without all that stuff, all that power."

Power is something Peter's always wanted. He chased it for years, wanted to feel it tangibly between his fingers, wanted to revel in the dominance and the authority it granted him. But power was fleeting, easy to steal. Easy to replace with other feelings, and easy to be consumed by.

"You mean without murder?" Peter asks. He knows that's Stiles' problem. It's not that he might have been specifically targeting Scott, or that he might want to one day in the future when Stiles isn't enough for him, but rather that he's willing to kill to get what he wants. Murder is what Stiles associates with the bad guys, with the ones who take things without consent and annihilate anything in their way.

And the thing is, Peter's never seen it as a bad thing. Only as an exchange of power—if someone has it, you can take it. He feels the urge to kill easily, the urge to exert his dominance by taking a life, and he's not used to changing for others. It's not like he'd ever want someone to change for him.

"Yeah, and other major felonies too," Stiles says. "Just a cut back on the rule breaking that would put you away for life, you know. Minor stuff, I can live with."

Peter looks at him. He might not have asked for it, but Stiles did change for him. He probably broke a thousand guy code rules just by agreeing to sleep with Peter, by lying to Scott about it, by keeping secrets from his dad, by going after him after Peter walked away. Peter made him into something harder, something that doesn't only see in black and white contrasts but sees a sliver of gray sometimes as well. Peter could do a little for him as well, he supposes.

"I can do that," Peter says. "After all, there's always other ways to feel powerful."

He grins, and he sees Stiles' lips quirk up across the bed.

"Oh yeah?" he prompts. "What did you have in mind?"

Stiles shifts, sliding downward a few inches on the bed and spreading his legs just enough that Peter notices. They seem to be on the same page, like Stiles is happy to let Peter dominate him while he's naked to get his power fix as long as he doesn't have to help bury bodies. He looks willing to be debauched, and delectable, and quite arousing, so Peter slithers forward and slots himself between his legs. He seizes Stiles' wrist and brings it up to his mouth to feel his pulse with his lips, the sound steady and sure and just stimulated enough to speed up a hitch. He slides his teeth down the skin, watching Stiles lick his lips out of the corner of his eye.

Amazingly enough, Stiles says nothing. It stays wordless as Peter plants a kiss on his wrist, and then one on his palm, and crawls up the V of his legs to move his mouth to his neck. He feels Stiles slowly exhale beneath him, his hands coming up to rest on Peter's shoulders.

"If you really, really need to kill something," Stiles suggests as Peter licks a stripe up his collarbone. "I'm pretty sure there's a rat problem in the basement here."

"Murdering small rodents," Peter says on his neck, wondering whether to scoff or laugh. "Really?"

"Hey, it's better than cold turkey, right?" Stiles says. His hands slide up and down Peter's back. It doesn't feel sexual at all, only intimate, and Peter wonders how long it'll take to get used to the sensation.

He has something to do, though, something that's tickling his mind, so he pulls away from where he's getting to work deepening marks on Stiles' neck—a mission he will dedicate his life to, if only to ensure that he no longer has to deal with the fury of watching others attempt to touch Stiles and to ensure that he gets to see Derek's forehead vein reappear in his life upon seeing Stiles—and fishes his phone out of his pocket. Stiles watches him curiously, lifting his head.

"Got a hot date you have to cancel?" Stiles asks him dryly, sliding his palm around the back of Peter's neck and playing with the soft strands of hair there.

"I'm glad you don't underestimate my popularity," Peter tells him, and watches Stiles' eyes flash. Jealousy might not color his own skin pleasantly, but Stiles wears it oh too prettily. Peter grins, and finds Derek on his contact list before composing a text message. It reads _Not that it's your business, but you were wrong._ He presses send with relish.

So maybe he did leave, that much is undeniable, but Stiles followed him. And Derek certainly hadn't anticipated that.

"And _I'm_ glad you're being so discreet for my benefit," Stiles says, yanking on his hair a little. It grabs Peter's attention, the soft pull on his head causing him to slip his phone away into his pocket.

"It was Derek," Peter tells him. "I just can't resist an opportunity to annoy him."

"Annoy him?" Stiles repeats. His hands are on Peter's arms now, rubbing at his shoulders, like he can't bring himself to stop touching. Peter doesn't mind. "What did you say?"

"That you were in my bed giving me oral, obviously."

Stiles yanks on his hair again, hand flying up to sharply tug on his neatly combed strands. The message still comes across. They don't always have to use their words.

"You love me so much," Stiles says in the dark. His voice is assertive in the shadows, his words a declaration instead of a question. Peter likes this side of him. He touches him on the jaw, and Stiles tilts in his direction, an assured smile on his face. Maybe Stiles is right, and maybe he does love him very much indeed. It might require a fair bit of paperwork, but he could accept that fact. After all, loving someone doesn't mean signing a contract that forces him to become a good person, or a valuable citizen, or a worthy Samaritan.

"I like this side of you," he tells him.

"You do, do you?" Stiles asks. "So can I top now?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Peter mumbles, pulling him in by the strings of his hoodie and drowning out the conversation with his mouth. Stiles responds instantly, as if touching again is like falling into an old habit, like listening to a forgotten beloved song.

Okay, maybe he'll _consider_ letting Stiles top.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: _This is the end. THE END. Time for one more fun fact: originally I wanted this story to be about three chapters. Then I made my peace with five. Then somehow it got out of control and it grew in length and there was suddenly a long sappy conclusion tapped on the end as well. Please make sure to brush your teeth after you finish this chapter so you get all that sugar off.

* * *

"This isn't going to work."

Stiles looks up at where Peter is staring at him grimly, and then down to what he's casting disdainful looks out of the corner of his eye to.

"Come on," Stiles groans, leaping forward to bounce on the bed. "Okay, fine, it's tiny. But sex has worked here before."

He probably should have dressed up the word _worked_ a bit more to play in his favor. Sex has been _mind-blowingly wonderful_ would've been a better choice in words. Peter looks unconvinced.

"I need room," Peter says with a heavy sigh, and it's almost alarming how much he sounds like a diva actress demanding ice sculptures and foot massages.

"This is a dorm, not the Taj Mahal," Stiles says slowly so the concept of rustic student life sinks into his brain. "It's a miracle Scott and I have enough room not to sleep on top of each other."

That sparks Peter's jealousy instinct in a heartbeat. It's almost too easy with him, Stiles thinks with an internal grin as Peter tugs him forward by the shirt and draws him close enough for Stiles to breathe in his aftershave.

"Are you jealous?" Stiles asks, and fights the urge to laugh very bravely. He wants to hear Peter say it out loud.

"You want to hear me say it out loud," Peter deadpans, practically reading Stiles' thoughts and pushing them nose-to-nose by maneuvering him by the strings of his hoodie. "You want to hear me say how much will-power it takes for me not to destroy everything the people you ever touched or let touch you dearly love."

And if there's something wrong with him, fine, all the more of a field day for the neuropsychologists when his brain is donated to science after he dies, but that turns him on like an oven going from cold to aflame and ready to make hot dogs sizzle. He's in a relationship with Peter Hale, revengeful werewolf murderer extraordinaire, so he might as well resign himself to a life of skewed sanity.

"Sometimes Scott and I share clothes," Stiles whispers like he's sharing secrets, grinning as a deep-set frown grows on Peter's face. "And when I get drunk he's usually the one responsible for pulling my pants back up."

"Who have you been pulling your pants down for?" Peter all but growls.

Stiles is having too much fun with this. "Didn't you hear? I decided to turn my dorm into a high class escort business to hustle a little extra cash."

It makes Peter pull his legs out from under him until he's flat on his back on the croaking mattress, staring at the ceiling. He blinks, and then there's Peter looming over him.

"Don't play, Stiles," he says, pushing their bodies flush together. "These kids have so much life ahead of them, I'd hate to cut it short." His left hand slithers deftly between their bodies, cupping Stiles' crotch. Stiles leads his wandering hands away with a disapproving tilt of the head he learned straight from the terrifying librarian across campus. He grins when something primal in Peter's eyes flashes.

"Uh uh," he teases. God, he's enjoying this. These are the moments when he wants to own the sleazy video camera and the mirrored ceiling, just to engrain this memory in his head. "That'll cost you around here."

Peter's eyes flash as his hands are led away from Stiles' body and back to his sides. "I'm a very rich man," he murmurs. His wrists twist out of Stiles' grip, his fingers snapping closed around Stiles' forearms. "But I don't like sharing."

"Someone will have to break the news to all my regular clients," Stiles says with a hefty sigh. He enjoys the joke, but if he's honest, he's also enjoying the rampant jealousy that sprouts blatantly on Peter's face in a sneer and narrowed eyes. It's only endearing when it's not directed at him, but when it isn't, Stiles feels a surge of unexplainable fondness creep up his chest. He's spent too much time with werewolves.

"I can easily send them a warning," Peter says.

"No dead animals."

"I was thinking of a more blunt approach," Peter suggests. "Like me fucking you in this room hard enough that the entire floor can hear you beg me."

The words turns Stiles rigid, the possibilities of exactly how much they could do in this dorm room to make up for lost time swarming his brain and sending his blood southward. Most of it might even be against the rules, and a part of Stiles is very much looking forward to being the outrageous rule breaker again.

"Fuck, that's hot," Stiles groans, giving in as Peter attacks his neck with his tongue.

"But," Peter says. "We will have to fix the bed situation."

* * *

Derek doesn't ever know the full story.

From the looks of it, Stiles and Peter don't sometimes either. They are chaos, Derek thinks on a daily basis, but then again, order just doesn't sit well with some people. All the other things might go away—love, companionship, laughter—but the chaos will stay, and it'll probably keep them together. The idea of using the word _together_ while looking at Peter and Stiles triggers a horrible headache behind his eyes, probably because he can't wrap his head around the idea of _this_. Whatever this is.

His original plan had been to watch them from a distance in case whatever it was between them was still fragile, like a forest animal that gets skittish when others get near. Things had been unsure for so long, Scott and him working as unwilling messengers between all of them, that the idea of a reconciliation had seemed out of the question. Not that there's that much to reconcile when the extent of your interaction with each other is sleeping together, but still.

And now he's looking at them, sitting together on Derek's couch with Stiles' leg slung over Peter's thigh. Vaguely, his memory flickers back to a few years ago when Scott and Stiles had been nothing but untrustworthy alliances who usually screwed everything up and Peter had been even worse at screwing things up, and he wonders if anybody is really capable of that much change. He's been under the firm belief that at the end of the day, people are the same self-involved, uncaring creatures they were in the morning. This shakes things up a little bit, and there goes the universe again, making him remold his view of the world. As long as it's for the better, Derek doesn't mind that much.

If anything, he supposes he should be happy Peter's learned to actually empathize. Still, it's strange. A mystery that will probably go unsolved. And since Derek's spent the last few years racing to solve mysteries that usually ended in dead bodies, he's willing to let this one slide with no interference of his own. After being dragged through the drama—much like Scott did—after the grisly break-up, Derek still thinks he deserves a few answers. Namely, what the hell this even is.

"What," Derek is momentarily dumbfounded as he approaches the two of them, casually draped over each other on his couch, glancing between them as he waits for his words to come back. "What the hell even is this?"

"A real relationship, probably," Peter drawls, and Derek picks up on a skip in Stiles' heartbeat like maybe he's never heard Peter identify their feelings as such. He makes a point of not bringing it up. "Isn't that scary?"

"In this town, I've seen scarier," Derek says as matching grins spread over both their faces, starting to feel genuinely nauseated at the sight, and thinks it might just be true.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Scott knows everything.

He's not as slow as his best friend apparently seems to think he is. He sees it all. He and Derek hypothesize and share their findings. Why Stiles believes that his relationship exists in a bubble that no one else can see into when, in fact, everybody notices the subtle hands on each other's asses and the drama strung between them like the private room they thought they're inside actually has glass walls, Scott has no clue. It's almost laughably obvious.

Derek called him after he visited the dorm and failed to find Scott, only stumbled into a pathetically dressed Stiles with mustard stains on his sweats.

"He doesn't look good," Derek had told him flatly. "What has he been doing?"

"Eating a lot of Mexican. Pretending to study. Getting drunk at parties. Brooding." Scott didn't think it could get any worse as he summed it up and heard Derek exhale slowly on the other end of the phone. "Do you know the whole story?"

"Pretty sure," Derek had said. "Do you?"

They had compared notes after that—Peter was acting blasé and uninterested in anything involving Stiles or humanity. Stiles was too interested in humanity and trying to drown his sorrows by sucking dicks. The Alpha bit was a small surprise.

"Wait," Scott had paused. "He wants to kill me to become the Alpha again?"

"Supposedly," Derek said. "I've never heard Peter say it, but he probably wouldn't to my face. Stiles didn't tell you?"

"No. You'd think he would've wanted to prepare me."

He spent the next obligatory two minutes marveling over exactly how little trust Stiles apparently had in him—or perhaps, how little he felt like sharing—and trying not to be personally offended that the only way he could garner information was swapping gossip with Derek like junior high schoolgirls texting each other scandalous updates.

He understands most of Stiles' moping after that. Nothing about his split with Peter had been amicable, and how could it have been when Stiles had found out about Peter's plans to murder his best friend and Peter hadn't denied it?

It takes Stiles another week to tell him the full story after that, from beginning to end with the r-rated parts cut out, the morning when Scott comes back to the dorm to see Stiles wringing his hair out of his head and Peter out of sight after setting them up the night before. He sits Scott down and vows to tell him everything, and he does, Scott not daring to interrupt as Stiles talks. He talks for a while, and Scott skips two classes just to listen to it all, most of it things he already knows. Not that he'd mention that particular tidbit.

"There's something else," Stiles had said, bracing himself. "The reason we didn't… I mean, the reason he never came here is—the reason I didn't want to see him last night." Another breath. "I found out he wanted to be the Alpha again and probably wanted to kill you to get it. And I just—that's not really boyfriend material, you know? And I should've told you. I know. I'm sorry."

He let out an enormous breath afterward, the burden of the secret leaving him apparently making room for air in his lungs again, and Scott reached out to pat him on the knee. Stiles seemed to be awaiting a large explosion of outrage, and when Scott stayed quiet, he looked up from where he'd ducked his head between his legs.

"Are you mad?" he had asked, voice small.

"I already knew," Scott admitted. "So yeah, I'm a little mad."

"God, you _knew_?" Stiles slumped into his hands, hiding his face from the world as he cradles his body between his knees. His next words come out sad and muffled in his palms. "I'm sorry, okay."

And it was easy to see that he was. Scott couldn't exactly blame him for losing his mind a little around Peter. Peter had that effect on people.

"So what exactly happened last night?" he asked after the long-winded explanation had finished and Stiles had pulled himself out from where he was hunkering between his legs. All he knew was that Peter had come, and now Peter was gone, nowhere to be seen.

"We had really hot sex," Stiles deadpanned, dragging his fingers over his eyes. "And then he left. I woke up and he was—I don't know, he didn't want to stay, clearly."

Scott decided to prod gently. "And you wanted him to?"

Stiles' eyes had poked out from between his fingers. "Yeah," he breathed out. It sounded like the honesty was washing relief over him, even if the words he was saying were less than ideal. He wanted Peter, and he wanted him to stay, and more importantly, he wanted Peter to want to stay. Scott felt himself droop at the idea of Stiles coming this far, and admitting this much, for Peter to disappoint him. Then again, it was Peter. He never exactly signed up for making everybody's dreams come true.

"If he didn't want to stay, he's an idiot," Scott had told him surely. "Actually, he's already an idiot for letting you get away once."

"And maybe the whole murder thing too."

They laughed, and it felt nice. Having things in the open was what they were both used to, sharing everything from secrets to ridiculous hopes to hidden fears. Scott touched his shoulder.

"He's not the only one in charge, you know," he reminded Stiles. "You should go after him. Tell him what you think."

Stiles stared. "Did you forget the part of the story where he wanted to kill you to become the Alpha?"

"Maybe there's more to it," Scott said. "Maybe he has a whole story."

It had sounded like a long shot even as he said it, but Stiles didn't laugh. He looked at him for a long hard moment, considering it, replaying the last few months in his head, remembering their last conversations.

"And if not," Stiles said. "I still get to tell him what a giant asshole he is."

That was the spirit, Scott thought. Stiles had lifted his hand, waiting for a high-five of morale that Scott was happy to deliver. And then he sprinted from the room, shouting over his shoulder asking Scott to email his professor saying he's suffering from extreme diarrhea and can't come to class, and the door closed surely behind him.

One month later, here he is, somewhat regretful of his supportiveness as he slides through a throng of partygoers in the dorm room two floors down and makes it to the bathroom door, opening it to see Stiles and Peter wrapped around each other with an alarming lack of clothing. Scott feels white spots explode behind his eyes at the sight and he fixedly looks away at the towel rack, surprise hitting him like a slap. Surely locking a door before getting freaky crossed one of their minds before removing all their clothes.

"God," Scott thinks, and briefly wonders why he ever encouraged this as a flash of highly personal skin is exposed to his unsuspecting eyes. Peter and Stiles, tangled around each other to the point that Scott can't tell where one limb ends and the other begins, look up at the door from where they're in the process of stumbling into the shower with their pants around their legs.

"Scott," Peter says, grinning. Next to him, Stiles has his fist wrapped around the shower curtain like he's trying to bring the entire structure to the ground. "Sorry we didn't hear you coming. We were busy coming ourselves."

He closes the door after that, very sure that they won't be needing his presence in the bathroom, and decides instead to waver by the door the rest of the party just to make sure no one else makes a beeline for the bathroom and ends up with an eyeful of more than they wanted to see.

It's a complete turnaround from a few months ago when Scott had found Stiles pantsless, drunk and alone on a toilet, and Scott would take walking in on Stiles pantsless and happy any day over that. He's a good friend, he thinks as he loiters by the door like some sort of sexual security guard, and Stiles is too.

The weird part is that this time around, he's not worried. Aside from committing felonies together, Stiles and Peter have already messed this up as much as possible, so really, it can only go up from here. He thinks it's important not to underestimate someone's capability to reinvent themselves as someone better, stronger, even more human.

"Hey," Isaac says, coming up next to him. "Whatcha doing over here?"

Scott cocks his head toward the bathroom door and silently thanks the heavens that the music is loud enough to drown out whatever noises are being made on the opposite side of a two inch slab of wood.

"Saving Peter and Stiles from being caught naked by the entire dorm," Scott tells him with a slightly embarrassed smile. Then again, he should probably get used to this sort of thing with Peter around.

"Everyone here already knows they're fucking," Isaac says around the rim of his red cup, but he takes guard next Scott anyway. "You can't bring a middle-aged guy into a college dorm and get away with nobody noticing."

"Most people just think that's a rumor."

"_Most people_ have seen Peter walking to the vending machines in nothing but Stiles' pajama pants."

Isaac and him share a dark look for all the unsuspecting freshmen who stumbled into what could very well he mistaken as a sexual predator lurking the dorm halls in search of a soda after waking up and looking for unsuspecting students. Telling Peter to tone it down would probably result in the opposite.

"Sorry, you can't use this bathroom," Isaac says when a girl with martinis in hand staggers her way to the door.

"Why not?"

"Clogged toilet," Scott cuts in smoothly. She looks at them like she wasn't born yesterday, but takes the hint to take a hike nonetheless. Isaac and Scott exchange yet another look.

"Another nightmare diverted," Isaac says, watching her walk away into the crowd. "They should thank us for this."

"They won't."

"I know," Isaac heaves a sigh, swilling the drink in his cup in circles. He looks over his shoulder at the door and leans in to knock sharply on the door. Through the wood, Scott makes out the stifled sound of someone—probably Stiles—tumbling against the wall in alarm.

"That was mean," Scott says, then grins. "Do it again."

After everything he put him through, Scott deserves to poke some fun at Stiles' expense.

* * *

They have their first date in November, and Stiles knows this because he doesn't realize it's a date until it's long over and Stiles is dragging Peter's shirt off his head in the darkness of the dorm.

Their situation might be unique, but Stiles still recognizes the signs even if they didn't come in bouquets of roses and serenades by the door. It had all the components of a date. They had gone out together, to a restaurant, and then to a teen horror movie that Peter thoroughly acted he was above in terms of his refined film taste, and they had done it all without the intent of sex. That was definitely a first, and Stiles pauses in his frantic attempt to rid Peter of his pants to think about it.

"Tonight was a date, right?" Stiles asks him, a little breathless. He makes out the shape of Peter's mouth, his nose, his rolling eyes through the shadows.

"If you want to label it, why not," Peter acquiesces.

"Do you realize it took you half a year to do that?" Stiles says. He looks at their bodies, pressed flush together in the dark, and realizes they've done all of this backwards. He knows Peter's mouth and his legs and his body intimately, and has no clue how much he tips in restaurants. They really are the most unconventional couple on the block.

"I didn't realize you wanted to be courted," Peter murmurs on his neck, sliding his tongue up his pulse point. Stiles reaches for his hair, tangling his hands there for leverage.

"Hell yes," Stiles tells him, tilting his head aside for more access. Peter takes the hint and continues his ministrations down his neck. "I want it all. Moonlight, flowers, love letters in iambic pentameter—spare no expense." When Peter chuckles on his collarbone, he yanks him back by his hair. "What, you think just because you got into my pants you don't have to charm me anymore?"

Peter arches an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you were so high-maintenance."

"Yeah, I am," Stiles confirms. He might be an easy lay, but he refuses to be an easy boyfriend. He's going to make this hard for Peter and he's going to enjoy it. "Whatcha gonna do about it?"

"Tame you, it seems," Peter says, seemingly up for the challenge. Then he bites down on Stiles' neck.

Yeah, Stiles is the one who needs taming.

* * *

Squatting in front of him in a rusty 96 Buick Riviera, complete with a student driver and a neglected passenger disinterested in the driver's complete lack of parking skills, is exactly the sort of trigger that would convince Peter to brutally murder a passerby.

It seems like a good idea for five solid minutes, watching the car jerk backwards and forwards into a parking spot that Peter had his blinker set for long before the car swerved in unexpectedly like all things unpleasant do, Peter gritting his teeth behind his steering wheel. It would be _so easy_ to stomp out of his car and casually slash the tires with an errant claw right about now, especially when he's outrageously late for his dinner rendezvous on Stiles' campus, but then again, he's a _changed man_ and what not.

His eyes flicker down to the post-it taped next to his odometer on the dashboard, Stiles' scribbly handwriting reading _try not to kill anybody on the road. i can't fuck you in prison_. It's good logic, actually, and it makes Peter take a deep breath, count to ten, and slowly back away from the veritable train wreck of a driving example in front of him.

Stiles' post-its are everywhere. They'd be borderline annoying if Peter didn't easily understand the subtext behind them—_since there's no murder rehab, little reminders might flush it out of your system_. It's almost sweet how hard Stiles is trying to turn him into a real boy with a real heart and a real compassion for the human race, and Peter can't hate him for trying. For all he knows, they might work.

He parks his car in what seems to be the last spot in the entire lot, so far away the restaurant is nearly a dot in the distance if Peter's being generous with his exaggeration, a complete contrast from the prime spot near the front he would have had if he had just done everybody a favor and killed the little menace in the front seat of the Buick now, but instead he takes another calming breath and remembers the post-it he found in his glove compartment a week ago. _An alternate to murder: yoga! If you relapse I'll take you to a retreat_.

Peter smiles. That was truly A+ blackmailing right there, something Peter believes Stiles learned from him. Stiles may pretend otherwise, but he's learned things from Peter as well, like how to wrangle free coffee out of baristas using only words and extremely subtle threats and how to intimidate somebody using only narrowed eyes and an eerie smile.

So perhaps kicking murder out of his hobbies for Stiles isn't such a bad compromise. He can't promise that the post-its will work forever and one day he won't just snap and strangle one of those children who run loose in stores tripping over his feet when they should clearly be on a two-feet leash, but he'll try. And for now, he's pretty sure that's enough for Stiles.

* * *

It is almost laughable how, when they are finally naked and touching and in the same room during all of this again, it all feels very much the same as before and different than before at the same time.

The concept, that's the bit that's familiar. Sex with Peter, that's not a new thing—but the way they touch, it seems like it's changed. It used to be a haze, a whirlwind of nails and teeth and rough touches, and now it seems—almost slower. Almost like this time, they're actually trying to savor it, to take time to pull each other apart. It feels more intimate than before, more _real_, like maybe this time it counts, and that's uncharted territory.

Stiles' hands curl around his neck, gripping the sweaty strands there, and hitches his ankles up to fold over the curve of Peter's ass. Their foreheads are pressed together and all Stiles sees is _blue_, blurs of icy blues from Peter's eyes close to his and warm parted lips brushing against his mouth. Peter's hips are rolling into him, steady and sure and rhythmic, not chaotic like Stiles remembers.

"I'm gonna come," Stiles whispers on his lips. He feels close to wrecked sobs being pulled apart like this with slow thrusts and even slower kisses, a stark contrast to the way Peter used to fuck him hard with vicious energy. He focuses on Peter's eyes and thinks he's doing this so he can watch Stiles come apart, so he can see him shake and shudder against Peter's frame and let himself go. Peter's cock drives back into him, nudging him prostate, and he bites his lower lip to smother a mewl.

"Go on," Peter says.

He clings on and his eyes fly open when Peter starts pumping his cock in time to his thrusts. Everything is slow, everything is tantalizing, like laying out in the grass on a lazy summer day, and Stiles is feeling _things_ because of all of it. He grips Peter's hair and tries to gather the air in his lungs, and when he opens his mouth, what tumbles out is a gasped "I love you."

Peter's eyes flash; Stiles sees it like lightning. The hand on his hips tighten, and it seems like something he wanted to hear. Craved for, even.

"Again," Peter says, and Stiles delights in hearing that he's just as breathless as Stiles. "Say it again."

"I love you," Stiles says again, and then once more, feeling nearly high and giddy with the way Peter's hands are seizing him and keeping him impossibly close. "I love you. I love the way you smell, I love the way you fuck me. I love the way you frustrate the hell out of me."

These are things he feels he has to say, just so Peter will know. Surely he already does, surely he sees how he takes Stiles apart by the strings, surely even astronauts in outer space can see how gone Stiles has become, but saying it out loud feels important. Powerful. Real.

And then he opens his eyes and Peter is laughing, laughing as his hips stutter into Stiles, eyes crinkled and mouth wide. He's not laughing at Stiles, probably laughing at the ludicrousness of the situation itself, because after all, _whodda thunk this is how it'll all turn out_, but Stiles still pinches him.

"Stop," he tells him, pushing his nose up next to Peter's. "Say it too, asshole."

"You are the closest I've become to ever loving anything," Peter says, and he doesn't even stutter. It comes out cleanly, like a declaration he isn't ashamed of.

Again, Stiles still pinches him. "Better than that."

"You infuriate me," Peter tries again, and Stiles does it again. He squeezes the skin of Peter's hip between his fingers and now Peter's laughing him. The motherfucker never misses an opportunity to tease. "You send me that much closer to hell."

And okay, that makes Stiles laugh too. He doesn't remember laughter ever taking place in sex, at least not in the sex he's always lived by, and to be sitting here with Peter's hand on his dick and their mouths touching downright _giggling_ is surreal. He grabs Peter's hair to ground himself, feeling his exhale slip out when Peter pushes his cock back into him.

"I'm gonna—fuck," Stiles takes another breath as Peter's fingers wrap around his dick, "I'm gonna kill you."

"I'd rather you not," Peter murmurs on his neck. He huffs out a sigh of faux exasperation, all show, and kisses his pulse point. "All right then, if I must. I do love you."

"Finally, you fucker," Stiles groans, his hips stuttering forward. "Now shut up and fuck me."

"Since you asked so nicely," Peter grins, and pushes in once more, harder this time, with more purpose. It makes Stiles sees stars, dead relatives, the works, and he reaches for the back of Peter's sweaty neck for something to hold onto as Peter hitches up his knees and his cock nudges his prostate.

Perfect, it's literally _perfect_. This is what being spoiled feels like, Stiles thinks. This is what it feels like to completely give himself over to the insanity of the situation, to the fact that Peter's in his bed and he's happy about it. Peter's hand is wrapped torturously around his dick, pulling him that much closer to the edge, and the pleasure and ludicrousness and magnificence of it all is almost dizzying.

He comes then, Peter's hips snapping into him and his mouth on his chest, leaving teeth marks on his way. He grabs onto the sheets to stay grounded as Peter keeps up his unrelenting pace, the hands on his knees keeping him in place. Stiles blinks away the last waves of his orgasm and focuses on Peter's face.

"You close?" he asks, even though he knows he is. He knows these things about Peter now, when he'll come, that the spot on his abdomen is particularly sensitive, when he likes to eat his breakfast.

Peter growls in response, not bothering to form words as he comes and his hips still. Moments like this, Stiles can't bother to feel bad about the fact that he's sexiled Scott yet again from the dorm, or that it took this long to get to this place. To him and Peter actually having meaningful sex. What a strange fucking sentence is that. It makes him want to laugh again.

"You'll be here tomorrow?" Stiles asks him as Peter pulls out, Stiles nearly falling off the bed at the movement. Peter snags him in by the waist at the last moment.

"Yes," Peter nods, tucking Stiles into his side. It's a bit too warm, a bit too sticky, and way too cramped, but Stiles is not interested in complaining.

"Oh," he makes a show of letting out a disappointed sigh. Peter raises his eyebrows. "I was hoping you'd be getting breakfast."

They undergo a short staring contest. Peter ultimately relents, leaning over Stiles to pick up his discarded shirt to clean himself up. Always, always _Stiles'_ shirt.

"Fine," he huffs. "Do I have to come back with said breakfast?"

"Yeah."

"_Fine_," he agrees, and Stiles feels oddly at peace knowing he'll return.

* * *

Stiles is not a morning person. Peter is not ashamed to know details like this about the boy in his bed.

All right, so it's not his bed, as much as he'd like it to be. His own bed has room, and soft sheets, and silky pillows. And then there's Stiles' bed. Cramped, stiff, possibly built for a gangly toddler. Peter adjusts his back in the tiny spot of room he has secured for himself, Stiles grunting at the movement where he's draped over his chest. Somewhere, he can hear Derek laughing at him as he cuddles with a teenage boy. Peter's made his peace with that fact.

It's become painstakingly clear that Peter is actually in love. That he's somehow prey to the same emotions that humans are. He feels it every time a wave of protectiveness washes over him after Stiles drops by with scratches down his arm from the friendly lacrosse game he played with some classmates on campus, or when he feels the urge to hook his fingers through Stiles' belt loops when somebody winks at him in public, or when he looks at Stiles' cheek pressed into his chest in the morning light. He doesn't know who he was kidding. He will never be able to share this boy.

He kisses Stiles quickly on the neck, right over the purpled bruise he left a night earlier, and slinks from the bed with werewolf precision that keeps Stiles from awakening. The mattress croaks under him, so old there's probably the Black Plague hidden in the springs, and pads his way through the silent early morning dorm to find the bathroom.

He checks the clock on the hall wall on his way back, the hands indicating that it's not yet eight. Stiles' first class doesn't start until noon, so Peter thinks they can afford a slow morning with some rutting under the sheets. Maybe he can even convince Stiles to put on clothes and bring breakfast. Peter has some excellent persuasion methods he could use for such a cause.

He goes to slip back into his room, pausing when he overhears something that sounds like voices through the door. He hears the sound of the mattress moving, a low croak as Stiles probably shifts awake, and Isaac's voice speaks up. If he's in there to ogle Stiles' naked chest, Peter will have to intervene.

"—he sleep here?"

"Yeah," Stiles' groggy voice filters through the door.

All right, not ogling then, just gossiping about Peter. It gives him the ample opportunity to eavesdrop, leaning flat against the wall by the door to pick up on the conversation. Something in Isaac's voice sounds almost accusatory, almost disappointed, like the idea of Stiles entertaining Peter at ghastly hours of the morning highly disturbs him. Isaac really ought to get over himself, Peter thinks.

"Did you actually do any sleeping?"

Stiles' low chuckle sounds next, the type of satisfied laughter only created by those well sated by sex. The rustling of sheets, like Stiles is slowly sitting up, drifts through the wall.

"If you don't like the way I smell," Stiles says. "Go into the hallway, buddy."

Isaac sighs at that. Peter knows exactly what Stiles smells like. Come, sweat, a dash of sleepy happiness. Peter is quite proud, up until—

"He's a fucking stupid idiot for leaving," Isaac says abruptly, sounding a little clipped. "I'm surprised you let him come back."

Peter raises an eyebrow. He'd interrupt to put the fear of god into Isaac right now with one look alone if he wasn't more interested in hearing Stiles' response.

"Uh, I actually went after him," Stiles corrects him. He clicks his tongue as the realization seems to settle around Isaac.

"You did? Why?"

"Because I'm a stupid fucking idiot too," Stiles says, and the words sound like something straight from Peter's mouth. He flattens himself against the wall for a better angle as he focuses his hearing on the conversation.

"I can see that."

"Hey," Stiles snaps, sounding slightly more awake now. "You're not the king of good decisions either."

And that makes Peter have to smile, because taking Stiles for granted had probably been his biggest mistake in the past. Stiles knows that Peter is a bad decision, that with his bad head and Peter's bad heart they make quite the dysfunctional couple, but still, he wants to willingly fall down the rabbit hole. He's the smartest fool Peter has ever met.

"All I'm saying is," Isaac says, a little defensively, "if he leaves you again, I hope you have a plan."

That advice sounds a little back-handed to Peter, and his comment seems like his cue to step in and graciously court Isaac into the hallway, but Stiles speaks up before he can step inside and intervene.

"He won't," Stiles tells him firmly. He sounds challenging, like he's waiting Isaac to continue and dredge up more proof that Stiles is stabbing himself in his own stomach by giving Peter another chance, but his tone of utter certainty keeps Isaac quiet.

"What about you prepare some hoodoo so a hell hound can feast on his danglers just in case?"

"Nope," Stiles says, and there's a finality in his voice that Isaac decides to heed. The sheets shift once more, like Stiles has settled back down onto the bed again. "Now would you get out of here? You're ruining my morning glow."

Wow. Peter is a little impressed by now. This is why he eavesdrops, he thinks, to hear for the first time how much someone believes in him. Stiles might be delusional for trusting him so inherently with his heart, but damn if it doesn't feel like warmth bubbling in his chest to overhear him being spoken of so firmly, so surely.

Isaac huffs a little, just an annoyed exhale through his nose like he might as well give up on talking logic with Stiles, but he listens anyway and heads for the door.

Peter doesn't bother moving, shoulder leaning against the wall in nothing but a worn deep tee and a pair of dark red boxers, and Isaac freezes when he sees him waiting by the door. He gulps, almost audibly, and pushes his hand into his curls.

"Oh," he says, and his cheeks have the decency to turn pink. "You been here long?"

Peter's eyes meet his, letting him make the inference himself. "As much as I appreciate your offers to help Stiles make voodoo dolls and throw bad mojo my way," he says breezily, "a little faith would be more appreciated."

"You just don't have exactly the best track record," Isaac tells him. Peter shrugs, acquiescing.

"True," Peter says. He thinks about casually throwing out there that Isaac isn't exactly an angelic saint either, but decides to keep that to himself, if only to prove exactly how much of a new and improved, calmer person he is now. Less likely to commit murder, demolish a teenager's heart, etcetera, etcetera. He leans in, brushing specks of dust off of Isaac's worn shirt. "It's cute how you think I care about what you think."

He doesn't wait to continue the verbal sparring. Whatever Isaac still has left to say—_nobody trusts you, Stiles is stupid for believing you, Scott's watching you closely_—Peter doesn't care. Stiles isn't ashamed, not like he used to be, and he trusts Peter and actually wants to keep him, so Peter sees no reason to dole out apologies to everybody who has their doubts. Let them start a betting pool for all he cares.

He slips in past Isaac, making sure to shut the door behind him as he approaches the bed once more. There's Stiles, sprawled across the bed, leaving little space for Peter to worm his way in.

"Eavesdropping is a bad habit," he grumbles, voice thick with the clear desire to keep sleeping. Peter manhandles him to the opposite side of the bed to make room for him, slipping under the sheets.

"I said I would cut down on the felonies. I said nothing about bad habits," Peter says, nudging Stiles until his arm drapes back over his chest and his leg slings over Peter's, tucked over his knee.

"Aren't you going to thank me for protecting your honor?" Stiles says into his chest.

"Absolutely," Peter promises him. "How would you like me to show my appreciation?"

Stiles lifts his head from Peter's chest, the beginnings of a smirk on his mouth that he tries valiantly to hide. "How about ten thousand orgasms?" He suggests.

"Negotiable?"

"No," Stiles mumbles firmly onto his skin, lips warm.

"If I must," Peter says. He heaves a sigh. "It'll be a great burden on my part, but—I'll be a selfless Samaritan this once."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

And if Isaac is listening from the doorway, he doesn't bother them again for the rest of the day.

* * *

Standing in front of him, 6'1", blond-haired, gangly and a little too cocky to be attractive, is Peter's next murder victim.

It'd just be so easy, Peter thinks. All it would take is one swoop of his teeth down the guy's throat and he wouldn't be forced to watch him flirt unashamedly with Stiles right in front of him for one more second. It might horrify the surrounding students scattered about the campus and spoil this truly lovely day, but that's a small price to pay for no longer having to see Stiles chuckle at this wahoo's poorly executed jokes.

"I almost failed the class," the boy says, apparently at the end of a hearty story, and Stiles laughs in response. Peter is sure, downright positive, that is pity laughter.

"So what did you do?" Stiles asks.

"Are you kidding? I put in enough extra credit to make me pass. The class is tough, but the old geezer gives out a ton of extra credit."

Stiles laughs again at that, quite amused. Peter is the opposite. He curls his hands into white fists behind his back and puts on his most charming smile as he steps closer.

"Shit, sorry," Stiles says. He reaches out to snag Peter by the arm, circling his fingers around his wrist. It's still a little too casual for Peter's liking, especially when he can smell the steady waves of arousal crashing over him from the other side of the table. Grabbing Stiles by the lapels, throwing him on the table and biting down his chest might make his point. "This is Peter."

Peter. Just Peter. He thinks that easily could've been followed by something that would leave no room for error, something like _my lover_. Even _my sugar daddy_ would get the point across.

"Hi," the boy says, and he flicks Peter a perfectly happy—albeit quite distracted—smile, like he doesn't sense the murder radiating off of him.

"And you are?" Peter asks him, making no effort to do so politely. The first sign of a frown slips into the boy's face.

"Oh," he says, apparently not expecting the cold greeting. He should be happy he wasn't stabbed across the table. "I'm a friend of Stiles."

"Lovely," Peter drawls, even though it's hardly lovely. His eyes flick down to where he can snatch a peek under the table and sees the boy's—one step closer to the grave every second, that one—feet pressing close to Stiles' sneakers, as if hoping to start a romantic game of footsie. Peter feels something like angry bees swarm up inside his chest, a rage promptly interrupted when Stiles yanks him down into the empty seat on the bench next to him.

And just like that, the boy's attention goes straight back to Stiles as if he's talking about finding a world wonder. It makes Peter see red, clouding over his whole vision, right up until Stiles squeezes his knee under the table.

This is a bit annoying, Peter thinks, more irked by the minute. He can't pinpoint which part is worse—the fact that Stiles could easily be the subject of this unabashed flirting every day, the fact that Peter ever encouraged this as if he could actually handle the idea of Stiles delighted by another man's flirting, or the fact that Stiles' pursuer doesn't even seem to be considering Peter as a threat. He barely spares him one glance, almost like Peter's too old or too grim or too much on his own side of the bench to warrant worry regarding Stiles' relationship status.

Peter scoots closer and contemplates the most discreet forms of murder. Stiles seems to read his mind and leans into him just a fraction, their thighs bumping together. Peter curls his arm around Stiles' hip, low and intimate and frustratingly hidden under the table, and Stiles stays oblivious to his hints.

"You're a little young to be in college, aren't you?" Peter asks him, interrupting what he's sure is a truly spectacular attempt to flirt Stiles out of his pants. He watches the boy's mouth fall open, and Peter waits with a cock to his eyebrow, as if waiting for him to challenge him with a comment about how Peter is too old to be on the campus.

Stiles shoots him a dark look at that, Peter matching it with a look twice as murderous.

"Sorry," Stiles says to the guy, because he's apparently not completely blind to Peter's hints. "I feel like I've hogged your entire afternoon."

It sounds like a courteous ending of a conversation, one Stiles' companion is blind to. Peter grits his teeth.

"Not at all, I love talking to you," he says, all bright teeth and coy grins. Peter feels the strong urge to throw his hands up into the air.

"Don't you have a class to be getting to?" Peter interrupts, and it sounds more like a threat than a question. Stiles pinches him in the leg.

"No," he says brightly, straight to Stiles.

"Really?" Peter persists.

The guy scowls, clearly disturbed by Peter's presence. Peter drives it home by leaning in to pull on Stiles' earlobe with his teeth, leaving a slow kiss behind his ear. Suddenly, the nauseating waves of arousal practically drooling out of the kid's mouth stop. Peter grins.

"Actually, I think I do," he sounds clipped now as he gets to his feet. He sends Peter a curt look loaded with ice, which Peter wordlessly one-ups with his trademark no one will find your disembodied limbs glare. "See you around, Stiles, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure," Stiles says, watching him passive-aggressively sling his bag over his shoulder while he stalks away, Stiles waving at his retreating back. He waits until he's out of sight, just far enough to no longer be seen, and turns to Peter.

Stiles pushes him bodily in the chest a moment later. "What's with the PDA in the middle of campus? Are we gonna be in the next Kanye West music video or what?"

"Don't act like you're bothered," Peter says. "I know you're turned on."

"You know where I prefer to be turned on? Behind closed doors where I won't end up on the front page of the university newsletter."

"How boring and completely unsurprising," Peter drawls, catching the elbow aimed for his ribs in his hand. "Apparently your new friend didn't think my affections were too obvious."

He waits for the retort, for the usual lecture in which Stiles defensively claims he is not boring, and how can Peter even say that after the thing with the whipped cream yesterday. Nothing comes, and when Peter looks at him, he's grinning.

"Oh my god," Stiles' beam is shit-eating. "You are so frickin' jealous. You are terrible."

"Please wipe that smarmy grin off your face."

"No," Stiles refuses flatly. If anything, his smile widens and his voice pitch goes high, squeaky, and horribly mocking. "_Go find yourself a nice college boy's dick to suck, Stiles. I won't mind._"

"That's a horrible impression of me."

"It sounds spot on to me," Stiles says. "What happened, huh? Mr. Tin Can grew a heart? Am I really that amazing in bed?"

"What you're amazing at is getting on my nerves," Peter grumbles. "How many times to you get hit on a day, exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know," Stiles says, practically singing. "I am young, hot and eligible, so I'd say maybe three bouquets a day and two romantic serenades." He pokes Peter in the chest. "Oh, plus there's this old guy at my dorm who keeps trying to sleep with me. Some facial hair, king of the v-necks, _totally _in love with me."

A child. Peter's dating a child.

"Are you done?" Peter asks, digging his nails into Stiles' knee.

"Not for a while," Stiles says. He sobers up a moment later to grab the hand on his leg. "I just never thought I'd actually see you jealous. I'm gonna revel in this for a while."

Peter compulsively smooths back Stiles' hair as the wind ruffles by them. "I'm incredibly possessive and horrible at sharing," he says. "And the idea of you with anybody else makes me want to leave bodies in my wake."

"That's so sweet," Stiles says dryly, squeezing his palm. "Most guys just try roses when trying to seduce people."

Peter laughs. "I don't need to seduce you," he says. "You already let me into your pants."

"I guess," Stiles admits. He gets to his feet, slinging his bag over his shoulders. "But it wouldn't hurt to maybe let a few guys hit on me while you're around if this is the reaction I get."

Peter rolls his eyes. The sun is sliding over Stiles' face in golden rays and licking up his cheeks through the shade of the waving leaves and Peter is amazed by how much he loves the stupid crazy boy in front of him.

"What?" Stiles asks a moment later when he catches him staring.

"Nothing," Peter says, shaking his head and watching Stiles squint at him through the sunlight. "You're insufferable."

He looks better now than he ever did before, Peter thinks, even when he was young and uncorrupted and delectable. There's something brighter about him now, an air of confidence or perhaps even a maturity, and Peter's insanely attracted to it. He gets to his feet as well, reeling Stiles in by the nape of his neck for a kiss. Stiles twists out of his grip at the last second.

"Hey, hey now," he murmurs, sweeping his hands over the busy campus. "Not in front of all of my admirers. I have to appear available."

"You're not nearly as funny as you think you are."

* * *

Stiles takes a break from the dorm during Thanksgiving, planning out an elaborate dinner that'll leave him hibernating for the rest of break with his dad. He drives Scott home on the way, dropping him off at his mother's and promising to check in with leftovers if there's extra pie at the end of the weekend, and then he's driving over to his dad's to commence the football and the binging of stuffing.

It'll be nice, he thinks, as he grabs his duffel from the back of his Jeep. He hasn't seen his father in a while, spending most of his time holed up at the dorm studying with Scott on campus or staying in bed with Peter. Maybe he can actually try to find a way to gently break the news to his dad during this visit that he's seeing someone a bit older and a bit more likely to break the law than expected if his father looks particularly complacent after stuffing himself with turkey.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket as he walks up the stairs to the front door, shooting Peter a text that says happy turkey day, hoping to tell my dad about you when he's drunk on food, and then tucks it away to grab his keys.

He walks through the door and there's Peter, jovially laughing with his father in the dining room like they're reuniting friends, and Stiles feels a bit like a mannequin accidentally brought to life as he watches them chat over bourbon. Surely this is an alternate dimension.

"Hello," Stiles says slowly, just in case his voice will break the mirage and he'll blink and there will be his trusty father awaiting his arrival alone, as expected. It doesn't work, and his gaze flits between Peter and his dad in panicked snaps back and forth.

"Stiles!" His dad calls out once he sees him, standing up from the table. He walks over to pull Stiles into a hug and grab the heavy duffel off of him, and over his shoulder he catches Peter smirking. Doesn't look good.

"Hello," Stiles says again for good measure, just in case he hasn't yet. "What's going on here?"

Like he needs an answer. Madness, that's what. He's not fully convinced that this is reality he's staring in the face.

"Oh, I just dropped by," Peter says, his voice dripping with the satisfaction that comes with being privy to information Stiles is not. "It was a pleasant surprise, finally meeting your father."

Screw what he thought before, he definitely needs answers. Hoards of them, like exactly what conversation transpired between them.

"You too," his dad says. Stiles tries to take in as much of the scene as possible—two open bottles of beer on the table, mostly empty, and Peter's sleeved rolled up to a comfortable point at his elbow. This illicit meeting went on for too long, clearly, long enough to expose some very fragile information. He tries to catch Peter's eyes, send him an SOS with the pure horror on his face, but Peter's looking at his father, all smiles.

"Well," Peter gets to his feet. He turns to the sheriff, voice polite as he extends his hand. "Great meeting you. Stiles clearly gets a lot from you."

And oh god, that could mean too many things. They both chuckle at that, Stiles' dad clapping Peter jovially on the shoulder. It is the perfect picture of peace, the sort of thing he'll regret not framing years later, and wonders just how strange it is to see them in each other's company. The man he's sleeping with, kept valiantly in the shadows, and his father the sheriff who is oblivious to exactly how many crimes the nefarious hooligan shaking his hand has committed. Stiles wonders if this moment will ever happen again.

"Make sure to stop by again sometime soon," his dad says. "I cook a mean meatloaf."

Peter smiles like this is an offer he's actually thinking of redeeming, and then he's turning to Stiles for his goodbye.

This is it, Stiles thinks, his ankles profusely sweating, this is when he finds out how much Peter let his father know. He waits for the Hollywood kiss or even a sharp smack on his ass, body immeasurably tense as it awaits its fate, and then Peter is coming up to him and stopping a healthy two feet away. His smile hasn't wavered except for the slightly mischievous quirk to the corner of his lips that wasn't there before, out of his father's view.

"And good evening to you too, Stiles."

And that's it. Not even a peck to the cheek or a cheeky tweak of his nose, just a smile and a slight tilt of his head. Stiles hears his footsteps head towards the door and realizes his lungs are still impossibly heavy because a part of him wanted very much for Peter to have spilled the secrets and for all of this to be out in the open, no longer hidden under sheets and whispers. No more rushing to keep his dad in the dark.

He excuses himself to the bathroom after that, hastily tripping over himself as he rushes up the stairs, and he scrambles for his phone once the door is closed behind him.

_ what did you tell him?_ he writes Peter frantically, thumbs slipping on all seven perfectly necessary question marks.

_ Nothing_, is his answer a minute later, followed by the cold truth Stiles was avoiding. _That's your job. _

He was afraid of that.

* * *

"So."

"...so."

Stiles doesn't know where to begin. Probably with looking his dad in the face without turning beet red. Does he first broach the topic of their age difference, or his sneaking around, or how on earth they met in the first place. He doesn't think he could ever tell that story and still expect his father to roll out the nice china when Peter stops by for dinner.

"That was the guy, wasn't it?" His dad asks softly.

He tries to gauge his tone of voice as he stares at the table. Is there disappointment? Anger? Shame? He nods without breathing, and hears his father shift in his seat.

"Sorry I didn't tell you till now."

"You didn't," his dad points out. "He just showed up."

Right. Stiles can't tell if Peter has his best interest at heart or is trying to find numerous ways to torture him to test if his love is true. Stiles nods, feeling the shame pile up.

"He's quite a bit older," the sheriff points out when Stiles unsuccessfully tries to fiddle with words to find the ones most suited for gracefully explaining himself. "But Mrs. Privot already told me that."

Of course she did. Stiles wonders when her nosy bigoted eyes will stop feeling the need to stake out his house with binoculars.

He has no idea what to say next. He likes 'em that way, old and around the block a few times? He's sorry he didn't share the news? He's sorry he's so bad at explaining himself now?

His father seems to pick up on his tongue-tied silence. He leans in and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, look at me," he says gruffly until Stiles caves and looks up from that tiny stain on the carpet. He's smiling, a serene amusement in his eyes, almost like he's happy to take whatever Stiles throws at him in stride. Stiles wants to hug him. "It's okay if you want to date the queen of England. I just don't know why you couldn't have told me."

"Because, it's _weird_," Stiles groans. The image of Peter and his father chuckling together at the table flits through his mind again, and that's even weirder. "What was he even doing here?"

"Returning your inhaler, actually," the sheriff says, fishing around in his pocket for it. He hands it to Stiles.

"Oh."

"Look, I'm not saying this wasn't a curveball. But Stiles," he squeezes his shoulder while Stiles fiddles with his inhaler. "You're my son. You can tell me anything."

He looks up, and there are his father's eyes again, genuine and earnest just like he remembers his mother's being. Maybe he had written off the whole honesty business as hocus too quickly.

"You really don't mind?"

"Does he treat you right?"

Stiles plays with how his dad defines _right _in his head and decides nodding is better than getting into technicalities. "Yeah."

"Then I don't mind," the sheriff said. Stiles feels an overwhelming surge of fondness, of gratitude, and of relief wash over him and sweep all the doubt and worry away. He has the best dad ever.

"Okay," he takes a deep breath. "So if I can tell you anything, you should probably know... I'm pregnant."

He stays bafflingly straight-faced as he says it, nodding solemnly as his father's face, suspended in surprise, goes from shock to laughter in two kodak worthy seconds.

* * *

"You have to treat him right this time, you know that?"

Peter freezes where he's hunkered over Derek's coffee machine, listening to it sputter out his latte while Derek hovers behind him. This conversation sounds oddly reminiscent of a few weeks ago, of Derek telling him to be careful because Stiles has friends in high places. Peter has experienced the wrath of these friends, mostly in the form of Scott coming to his home to try and play relationship counselor, and thinks the intimidation ship might have sailed.

"Is that a threat?" Peter asks mildly over his shoulder.

"I'm just reminding you that you already screwed up once," Derek says, then seems to consider his wording. "More than that, if you count all those times you tried to kill him and his friends. And he won't always forgive you."

"How charming of you to think I am destined to wreck my own happiness," Peter murmurs. Derek has such a lovely, biting way with words. He grabs his coffee, taking a delicate sip from the hot surface. "Stiles and I are fine."

"Fine?" Derek repeats dubiously. Peter is honestly surprised that the conversation is going on for as long as it is, especially with Derek at the wheel, who Peter knows perfectly well is not a fan of Stiles cohorting with the likes of him. Why he wants all the details and to shed out the wise advice is beyond him.

"Better than," Peter says. And honestly, how could they not be, after Stiles cornered him in a super market to tell him he loved him? That sort of occurrence doesn't color his everyday life. He's a little smitten, not that he'd admit it.

The thing is, he thought they were good before. No strings attached, no meddling emotions, no long goodbyes. And then StilesandPeter 2.0 happened, and suddenly Peter knows how it feels to have someone consciously, actively love him. It's a little dizzying.

"So what now? It's more than just sex?" Derek prods. Peter looks at him.

"If you must know," he murmurs around the rim of his cup, "Stiles and I are very much in love." He pauses for reaction to take a sip and watches Derek's eyebrows vanish into his hairline. "This new curiosity of yours is interesting."

Derek says nothing, apparently too boggled to come up with a response or even more probing questions. Maybe his surprise is because he'd never thought Peter could love another human other than himself, or maybe he's having difficulty grasping that Peter is actually lovable, or maybe just hearing Peter admit a fact about his relationship with Stiles that isn't a breezy dismissal of their feelings is the reason for his shock. No matter why, Peter is a little offended. He furrows his brows together.

"What?" He grits out when Derek stays silent.

Because here's the thing. Even if he doesn't love him, even if his mind and his heart can't properly agree on identifying whatever it is that swells inside him into monsters of jealousy, protectiveness, arousal, even affection when Stiles is around, Peter still takes delight in him. A dangerous, precarious, and treacherous delight in the intoxicating idea of keeping him forever, of watching him being ruined and rise again, of being the reason his eyes never wander. That thought alone makes him feel powerful, so maybe Stiles was right. Maybe he is enough and always will be.

Derek holds his hands up in compliant defeat, but still, there's an amusement to his face that Peter finds incredibly annoying.

"Nothing," Derek says slowly. "Just impressed that you're learning to play nicely with others."

Peter smirks. "Trust me," he says, leaning in conspiratorially. "Stiles and I hardly ever play _nicely _together."

He emphasizes his statement with a lewd grin, letting Derek work the unspoken details out for himself. He does, his face wrinkling up.

"That's enough," he says gruffly, almost like he's the authority figure here. Peter disagrees. "You know I don't want to hear that."

"I do," Peter nods. "Which is why it delights me so much to share."

* * *

Peter's solution to the tiny bed problem is to haul a mattress the size of an independent island nation into Stiles' dorm room because as a spoiled child, he seriously underestimates the amount of free space available in budgeted college living.

"Sweet jesus," Stiles breathes as he watches Peter inflate it to its full size. "That will not fucking fit."

Peter shrugs, pulling away from the mouthpiece to catch his breath. "It will if we remove Scott's bed."

"I thought we decided removing Scott from my life wasn't an option."

They glare at each other across the floor, and it feels remarkably nice to joke about something that used to make his heart so heavy none of his other organs had room to breathe. He slides away from his desk, poking the mattress to feel how flat it is. Peter takes another breath and continues his work.

"Can't you go any faster?" He asks, watching Peter's chest puff up as he inhales and exhales into the hole again. The glaring continues, Peter's eyes going murderous, and the sight actually manages to prickle Stiles' midsection to life. He shakes his head to get rid of that thought and focus on the conundrum at hand: trying to fit a king-sized inflatable mattress into a dorm room that probably used to be a supply closet.

"Would you like to be the one doing the blowing?" Peter asks him as he pulls away to breathe again. He rolls his eyes, holding up a hand to stop Stiles' retort before it escapes his lips. "Never mind. I know exactly how filthy that mouth of yours is."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Not at all," Peter assures him, locking eyes as he fastens his mouth over the blowhole once more. They're basically interior decorating, it shouldn't be this damn arousing. Stiles gives it a good three, four, seven whole seconds of electrical eye contact before he swats Peter's hands away from the hole and frantically caps it. The mattress is still wobbly at best and wedged firmly between Scott and Stiles' beds, a humongous monstrosity that takes up all of the floor, and all Stiles wants to do is christen it as quickly as possible.

He flops down on the mattress, wavering underneath him from lack of air, and yanks Peter down on top of him by his shirt.

"Okay, we can keep the ginormous mattress," Stiles says, already feeling a little breathless. He probably should've put a sock on the door handle, even though that would be the fourth time this week and might be pushing his roommate privileges. "But only if we break it in right now."

Peter doesn't seem to mind.

* * *

"I can't find my socks," Stiles grumbles, picking up books and heaps of clothes in search for them. He's got his shirt on the wrong way and is in a rush to get to class, so he fixedly keeps his eyes north of anything that could distract him. Like Peter's naked chest in his bed and the rays of sunshine splashed on it. He's using the term _bed _loosely, since it's really just the air mattress that's nearly flat on the floor by now after all of their less than gentle usage of it last night.

"Just wear mine," Peter drawls.

"Really?" Stiles perks up. "You'd let me wear your socks?"

Peter shrugs like it's no big deal even as an overwhelming warmth washes over Stiles for reasons he doesn't have time to unravel. Peter kicks his leather duffel of overnight belongings in Stiles' direction.

It hits him then quite suddenly that there is a man in his bed that he wanted there from the beginning, that was supposed to be there for months. This is what he wanted, what he asked for even back in summer, and he has it. He should probably step in gum on the way to class just to balance out his debt with the universe.

"Hey," Stiles nudges Peter's feet from where they're under his sheets. "And you thought you wouldn't like coming to visit me."

"Right, because that sudden blast of Taylor Swift through the wall at four a.m. wasn't an inconvenience."

"You get used to it," Stiles says, pulling on a mismatched pair of Peter's socks. He pauses. "You know who Taylor Swift is?"

Peter furrows his eyebrows together. "How old do you think I am?"

"Ancient," Stiles answers promptly as he sets his sights on finding his shoes. "Tell me, how was the economy in the 1800s from a firsthand perspective?"

Peter grins. "Great, if you were... how do you youngsters say it?" He gesticulates lazily to the air. "Rolling in the dough."

This is why they work, Stiles thinks as he tries and fails to keep his snorts of laughter at bay. They could so easily be the same person, the same genetic coding for snark and banter, a fact Stiles was perpetually scared to admit. Fact is, anybody can become a murderer, regardless of how their chromosomes are lined up—it's the humor that counts. At least, that's the line of thinking Stiles has to entertain when he's actively dating a crazy man.

"We're dating, aren't we?" Stiles asks, slipping into his sneakers. It seems to sink in just then that this is what dating is. It's what they used to be doing as well, just under a different name and the clever pretenses of hotly correcting anybody who misunderstood that they were "just fucking, thanks very much."

"I'm not giving you my varsity jacket," Peter drawls instantly from the bed, navigating away from the question effortlessly.

"Do you have one?" Stiles asks, momentarily distracted by the thought of a younger Peter dribbling a basketball around a hoop while a coach watches him.

"I did," Peter says. "I worked hard for it on my team. Not like you kids do with lacrosse—"

"Stop hating on lacrosse," Stiles points a finger at him while he's lacing up his high tops. "Seriously though. Are we dating?"

Peter looks at him, a tilt to his head like Stiles is crazy, and for a second, Stiles feels so. Only a man clinically insane would ask Peter Hale what just left his mouth. A part of him wants to laugh at the hilarity of it all, because this is certainly not the plan he had for his life when he was fourteen and tentatively sketching out a future. He wanted a pretty girl and a pool, and maybe even a low maintenance pet. He still wants the pool.

"Obviously," Peter finally says. "Is that serious enough for you or should I just propose now?"

"Is it too late to take back that 'I love you?'"

"Much too late," Peter drawls, twisting on his side so Stiles' eyes catch the long, lean line of his back.

He looks so _right _stretched over his bed, in his room, surrounded by Stiles' things and his personality. It twinges something in him that doesn't think he could ever handle seeing his bed empty again, no longer smelling of Peter's cologne and tousled with his pushy feet. This is probably the type of dangerous thought one shouldn't entertain with a man proven to be more insane than logical, but Stiles decides to take a gamble on this one.

"Stay," Stiles says. He means here, now, and also a bit longer than that too. He must be suicidal. After all, one day they are all going to die, some more gruesomely than others, so he might as well just give up pretending he doesn't want Peter around.

"Well, you won't have to force me," Peter says. He grins. "The mini fridge is accommodating, the sheets are warm, the floor is soft enough to kneel on for hours..."

Stiles looks up to see his suggestively arched eyebrows aimed in his direction. It's a tempting offer, much more tempting than the idea of sitting in a stuffy lecture hall doodling dolphins in the margins of his notebook.

"That might have to wait," he says, regretfully so as he glances at the clock and realizes that his leisurely stroll to class has now been upgraded to an undignified run.

Peter tuts. "Then if you want me to stay, you will, however, have to meet my outrageous demands."

"Uh huh, what are those?"

"Chocolate fountain. Ice sculpture. All purely for sexual use."

Stiles fumbles with his backpack strap at that. He's not sure how he's supposed to mosey off to class with some of these visuals in his head, but he's already tremendously late and feeling hopelessly torn in two directions—honest education and returning back to a cozy bed that happens to have a naked man in it. Scott's going to love this when he comes back from class unprepared for the one hundred percent naked dick wandering around his room.

"I'll have my people talk to your people," he says slowly as he hitches his bag over his shoulders. Peter looks perfectly comfortable on his mattress, rifling through his nightstand and leafing through his books, but Stiles still wants to make sure he'll be here when he comes back. He pokes him in the calf. "Hey. If you're gone when I come back I'm going to find you, and cut off your balls."

"A serious threat, considering how much you love my balls," Peter murmurs, and when Stiles' hard gaze doesn't relent, he sends him a smile. It looks like one Stiles has never seen before, no quirk of mischief present or even a hint of malice. It looks startlingly genuine, and that hits Stiles like a waterfall over his head. "I'll be here."

Stiles believes him. He has little to no reason to, but he takes a leap of stupid faith and does. He nods and waves goodbye with a two-fingered salute, and then he's out the door ready to take notes and pay attention in his lecture. Well, maybe not that last part.

He comes back two hours later with espressos in paper cups and doughnuts, and when he opens the door, there's Peter, sitting at Stiles' desk in actual jeans and a frown.

"The noise levels here are atrocious," he says once Stiles comes in, not bothering to look up from the history paper Stiles wrote last month. "The walls must be made of prosciutto."

"You're here," Stiles says. He drops his backpack and wanders precariously over the inflated mattress on the floor without spilling espresso. He should've known Peter would stay, especially with so much stuff to rifle through and spy on in Stiles' absence, but still. He's here.

"Where else would I be?" Peter asks, and looks up from the paper. He sees the bag of goods in Stiles' hand and grins. "I smell espresso."

"Earn it," Stiles says, mirroring his grin. Peter chuckles, getting up from the desk and grabbing Stiles by the collar. He didn't leave, he wanted to stay. He wants Stiles. Stiles doesn't wait, just pulls him in by the back of his neck and kisses him.

* * *

Gardening gloves in hand, Mrs. Privot watches as the gentleman she had become accustomed to seeing leap out of the Stilinski house window like an underdressed cat burglar strolls nonchalantly out the front door. It is a pleasant thing tosee, having never seen it before, and she is quite relieved knowing that the man could and did exit houses in ways that didn't urge her to call the police.

She hasn't seen him around for some time, but she had assumed it was because the sheriff's son had shipped off to university. Mrs. Privot may have the reputation of being the neighborhood gossipmonger, but make no mistake, Mr. Stilinski was as chatty as the rest and had informed Mrs. Privot of his son's departure to college through no prodding of her own.

"And how has his boyfriend taken the news?" she had asked at the time, and then proceeded to watch as the sheriff's mouth fell upon and cheeks turned ashen. It was upon further clarifying "the one he's been passionately sharing public affection with on your porch" that she realized she had just shared a grave secret, and promptly excused herself on behalf of her tulips requiring maintenance.

In truth, the man Mrs. Privot had seen with Stiles had reminded her of her son. They had similar facial features, and a similar tendency for making out with their male companions on the front lawn, and as strange as it seemed, watching similar scenes play before her from the view of her window brought a sense of nostalgia awash in her chest. She remembered all too well the days when she would stumble upon her boy necking with another on the couch, and wondered if that day would be soon to come with the oblivious Mr. Stilinski who was kept in the dark of his son's relationship.

Five days after her unfortunate slip of the tongue, she ran into the sheriff once more at the mailboxes. He had the weight of a man enlightened on his shoulders, and he even dared to ask, "The fella you've seen my son with. Do you know who he is?"

Mrs. Privot knew not. All she knew of the man was the remarkable agility with which he leapt from a two-story window from. The look in the sheriff's eyes made clear that although he had confronted his son on the matter of his illicit boyfriend, he had received little details. Mrs. Privot felt bad for the man.

"He's an older gentleman," she told him, knowing not much else. "But I've not seen him here much before."

The sheriff's eyebrows knitted together in displeasure. "Older?"

Mrs. Privot watched the discomfort grow on his face, and thought him quite judgmental. She told him so. "There's nothing to be concerned about with that. My husband was nearly seventeen years my senior when we married."

Her husband had been dead for eleven years now, the downside of being so far behind his race to the grave, but Mrs. Privot did not mention this particular disadvantage of dating older men out loud. After all, her marriage had been happy, and from the spying she was doing from her garden, Stiles was as well.

She did not see Stiles again until Thanksgiving rolled around and the only yard work she was doing was raking leaves rather than planting flowers. He looked just as young and spritely as ever as his rickety Jeep rolled up the driveway after a long drive from campus, and when he saw Mrs. Privot in the yard, he half-heartedly acknowledged her presence with a wave.

"Hello, Mrs. Privot," he called across the street. He seemed uncomfortable, as he perpetually was whenever speaking with her, as though expecting her to beat him over the head with a large book. Mrs. Privot only ever did that with the ruffians who thought it amusing to steal her gardenias. "How are you?"

"Just fine, thank you," she hollered back. "Enjoying your break?"

He swayed from foot to foot as he grabbed a large duffel from his backseat and occupied himself with it. "Yeah. Nice to be home."

"And you didn't bring your boy with you?"

That caused Stiles to snap his head up toward her, suddenly alert. He seemed utterly taken aback, like he hadn't been prepared for the question about his personal life. Mrs. Privot took offense to that. She made a point of asking all the rugrats in the neighborhood how life was treating them at least once a year; there was no reason to be shocked when she showed polite interest in the details of their lives.

"Uh, no," Stiles said, apparently lost for words. He was looking at her as if she'd grown a second head.

Patiently, she rested her arms on her rake. "Has your father still not met the man?" She firmly believed that a strong relationship with family was the key to any successful romance. Mrs. Privot remembered all too well from her youth that all it took was one overly protective mother or a judgmental father to sour a teenage spark.

"No, no… he's met him," Stiles told her. "A little surprised, but it was okay."

"He's just old-fashioned," she called back. It had taken quite a bit of prodding on her end to swat the idea that May-December romances have trouble written all over them out of his father's head. Still, people were good at adapting. She had high hopes for the Stilinski family. "Anyway, have yourself a nice Thanksgiving."

With that she waved her gardening glove in his direction alongside her bright smile, Stiles still surveying her as a mutant of this planet. It didn't occur to her until Stiles had trudged his bags up the front steps and been welcomed with a fatherly hug that Stiles' shock had probably been at her blasé attitude concerning his boyfriend. There's a good chance he had been stereotyping her to disapprove of gay relations and be racist to boot, and that, Mrs. Privot thought, was downright ageist.

Months passed before Stiles' boyfriend appeared once again in the neighborhood, their relationship probably adjourning to a dorm room until Christmas holidays swung around and Stiles returned home. The man arrived fairly late at night, presumably to stop by for a cup of cocoa and a feel-good Christmas film, and Mrs. Privot watched him roll into the neighborhood in a sleek black car well after supper was over.

She made the snap decision to grab her wool coat and leave the house then for a small chat, wrapping her gloves over her hands and wobbling out into the snow. It crunched underfoot when her winter slippers slid on the icy patches, and she troddled all the way to the end of her driveway.

"Excuse me," she said, her voice strong through the quiet snow-laden night. The man turned his head. "Yes, you."

She crooked her finger toward him, beckoning him over. He seemed amused by the idea of conversing with her, therefore wrapping his coat around his chest and crossing the street to stand next to her on the driveway. Up close, he was a very handsome man, with a strong jaw and a well-built figure. He reminded her very much of her son, as with him too, she had to draw herself up to her full height just to reach his collarbone.

"Hello," the man said smoothly, all old world charm. Definitely a bit older than Stiles, but Mrs. Privot was not one to judge and would not start now. "You must be Mrs. Privot."

She cared not for what information he had heard of her through the neighborhood or through Stiles himself, so she passed the formalities quickly.

"Are you the man who's been entertaining Stiles recently?"

His eyebrow arched up, just one. He was certainly a very elegant man, the very opposite of the small, fidgeting, nervous child across the street. She hoped dearly that they could balance each other out. Those relationships, she knew, were often the healthiest, the strongest, even if they were also the most infuriating.

"Yes," he told her slowly, clearly unsure of where this was going. She was not fond of the look on his face like he was expecting a thorough telling off and to be led inside for a few instructional readings of bible verses.

"Don't fret," she told him to assuage some of his concerns that she was planning to loudly judge him in the middle of the street. "I'm only here to tell you to be careful with him."

"With Stiles?"

"Yes," she drew her coat further around her tiny frame, feeling the cold penetrate her gloves. "Not that he's weak, but he's a fragile sort. Lost his mother very young, often seems a bit high strung. I say this only because I've seen you jump from his window at ghastly hours of the morning quite a few times and can only assume you're a permanent fixture in his life at this point, so make sure you take care of him."

The man looked at her, apparently surprised just as Stiles. Mrs. Privot didn't know where these stereotypes of elderlies being bigots came from, but she was willing to entertain it for now until the end of the conversation.

"All right," he said, and Mrs. Privot hoped he was the type who was true to his word. The rest were never worth affiliating with. "I will."

She nodded, and he nodded, and then he set off across the street and she returned to her cozy house where the heating was cranked up to rival Floridian summer. She watched from the safety of the window as she put the kettle on how the man knocked on the front door, greeted the sheriff, and slid inside into a house bathed in golden evening light.

Fast forward to spring, back to the garden as Mrs. Privot prepares to replant her bulbs. She's watching as the man walks toward his expensive black car propped up in the driveway. She checks the watch dangling off her wrist, presuming that he and Stiles just enjoyed a lunch date they kept, probably sitting out on the patio to enjoy the first hints of warmth without frost there to spoil the afternoon.

Two seconds later, Stiles emerges from the front door, ambling out after his boyfriend to call for him to stop. He calls him _Peter_, which Mrs. Privot thinks is a name that fits his handsome face perfectly.

He murmurs something to the man, something quiet that seems to make both of them smile, and Mrs. Privot looks fixedly at her handful of seeds, sensing a moment too intimate for her onlooking eyes. She busies herself roughing up dirt for the new flowers, only looking up when Stiles is leaning in to kiss Peter goodbye. It is a long kiss, the kind that Mrs. Privot notices even from a distance is the kind they have clearly shared many times before, and it is reluctantly that Peter pulls away and slides into his car. Stiles stays in the driveway to wave him off, watching his car slide out of the neighborhood, and his eyes fall on Mrs. Privot across the street as he rolls away. She waits for the inevitable tensing of his shoulders and is met instead with a bright grin.

"Hey, Mrs. Privot," he calls over, clearly in happy spirits. She would be too after such a kiss. "Lovely day."

"It is," she agrees. "Even lovelier for you, I see."

He smiles and makes no move to duck his head and shuffle his feet. Gone are the days of being so ashamed of his companion he was forced to exit the house from the second floor window. He seems quite at peace with the relationship, if not proud, and Mrs. Privot smiles back.

"Is it going well with him?" she asks next, even though she feels quite strongly she knows the answer.

"It is," Stiles answers. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. "Better than I ever could've imagined."

He looks content, awed and relaxed and quietly happy, and that's enough for Mrs. Privot in terms of gossip. She's sure they're relationship is quite the story, but as far as she's concerned, it's the present that matters most.

_fin_


End file.
